


The Chameleon

by Elizabeth



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Canon Universe, Eventual Smut, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Mutual Pining, Okay maybe there's some plot, Soft!Geralt, We're here to drink coffee, and fall in love, plot what plot?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:33:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23708437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elizabeth/pseuds/Elizabeth
Summary: The Chameleon is the best (perhaps only) coffee shop in Novigrad, which uses only the finest beans from Tir Tochair and Dol Blathanna.Geralt is notorious, and Jaskier's friends think he's dangerous, but it would be foolish to turn away a paying customer, right?Geralt, meanwhile, is increasingly uncertain it's the coffee that keeps him coming back.This is a Witcherverse-set coffee shop AU with gratuitous descriptions of tasty beverages, canon-typical pastry consumption, and all of the warmth and comfort a witcher and his barista deserve.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 424
Kudos: 1137





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Before we get started, here's the scoop:  
> 1\. Yes, there is coffee in the Witcherverse.  
> 2\. You don't need to know who Zoltan and Priscilla are to understand the story.  
> 3\. In this AU, Jaskier and Priscilla are baristas, not bards. They are still musically talented because of course.  
> 

“I don’t care what it was like before,” Jaskier insists. “This isn’t that kind of establishment.” It’s the fourth time he’s had this conversation today.

The man hiccups—or belches. Jaskier isn’t certain which, but the abruptly exhalated breath is noxious and vile. “Then where’m I supposed t’ find whores?”

“The Passiflora?”

The man nearly comes across the counter at Jaskier. His face is purple and his eyes bulge with rage.

“Apparently not. Maybe try the docks.” _Or prioritize your spending_.

Priscilla snorts in laughter. “Dandelion, one of these days…”

The man clenches his fist. “Ye think yer funny, eh?”

Jaskier shrugs. “I’m… honest? The Passiflora is where I’d go.”

“I’m not made of money ya—” He goes silent as a hand clamps down on his shoulder.

“He told you to leave.”

Jaskier looks past the man to the new arrival. “I didn’t tell him to leave; I simply told him where he might hire the services of a… courtesan.”

Priscilla snorts again. She smiles at the newcomer. “Can I help you?”

He steps to the side of the drunkard and stares at him. “Mm,” he answers.

The man hiccups again, provoking a disgusted look from the stranger. “I’s here first. I get the pretty one.”

“You should leave.”

“ _You_ should leave!”

The stranger takes a step closer to him, and the drunkard seems to shrink. Evidently the inebriation hasn’t obliterated all of his senses. The stranger just glares at him and lets out a low sound that seems to resemble a growl more than anything else. _Interesting_ , Jaskier thinks.

The drunk leaves.

Priscilla’s shoulders relax. Jaskier lets his shoulders relax, too. Across the room, Zoltan returns to sorting and weighing beans, shaking his head. Jaskier steps aside.

“What can we get you?” asks Priscilla.

The stranger looks a little sheepish. “I…”

“This is your first time here?” Priscilla fixes him with her brightest smile, and Jaskier watches the man. He seems remarkably unfazed by her attention.

“Yes.”

“Why don’t you just have a seat, and we’ll bring you something nice and hot here in a minute.”

The stranger nods, turns in a quick, tight movement, and strides purposefully to a table. Jaskier’s hands are already busy as he watches him go.

“Haven’t seen him before,” Priscilla whispers. She lifts an eyebrow. “I’d remember.”

Jaskier huffs out a small laugh. He takes hot milk from the kettle and pours it into a jar and pumps the attachment until it’s frothy and light. Priscilla looks surprised. “What?” he asks.

“You’re… You don’t think he’d just like it black?”

Jaskier looks across at the man. He’s wearing dark leathers. His long, silvery hair is tied back for utilitarianism. Two swords are strapped to his back, even here. His hands, which he taps on the table as he waits, look rough and used, even from across the room. “Nope.”

“Right.”

As if he knows they’re talking about him, the man looks up and catches them both staring. Jaskier hastily returns to preparing the drink. Priscilla just cocks her head to the side and stares back. “Coffee?” Jaskier prompts. She frowns and pours some of their strongest into a large mug. Jaskier pours in the milk, leaving a little swirl in the top.

She takes it from him with one hand and puts the other on her hip. “You think he wants vanilla or cinnamon, too? Sugar?”

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “He got rid of that guy. Be nice.”

“I’m always nice.” She saunters away to pass off the mug.

~ ~ ~

Most of their business is finished by midday, so the afternoons can be slow. The first few weeks, Jaskier spent that time cleaning. The building is fairly large, even for Novigrad. He got his hands dirty, refinishing floors and scrubbing tables. He dug into some of the money his father left him and bought new tapestries and a pair of candelabras from a Temerian trader.

He also borrowed… a _bit_ of coin. Plaster was more expensive, it turned out, than he could have predicted.

It’s brighter now, and open. Ambient light streams in throughout the day, and the candles and lanterns flicker merrily after the sun sets. Each day, fewer miscreants stumble through looking for Rosemary and Thyme’s old business, and more and more come for The Chameleon.

Jaskier has always been a misfit; he didn’t mind when they told him he was crazy. Still, it’s nice to be proving them wrong. As long as Dudu and Dainty’s trade connections don’t fall through, he plans to be here a long time.

~ ~ ~

“Do you know who that was?” Priscilla asks after the stranger leaves.

Jaskier sips on something he’s trying out with sea salt, cream, and burnt sugar. He makes a face. It isn’t quite right yet. “No.”

“You were right, by the way.”

“Huh?”

“About the milk.”

“Ah. Of course I was.” He allows himself a smug little smile.

“Zoltan,” she calls. “Do you know who that was?”

The dwarf looks up from a ledger. “Nay, but he took right care o’ that hooligan.”

Jaskier picks at the glaze on his mug. “So… what did you talk about?”

Priscilla narrows her eyes. “Why?”

“It’s just that, you know, you were over there for a long time.”

“I was explaining how Zoltan roasts the beans.”

“Oh.”

She purses her lips, but another customer arrives and prevents her from interrogating him. Jaskier thinks how it would be nice to have someone like that around all the time. Zoltan is strong and scrappy, but he can’t always be in the front of the café. The stranger was tall, and he looked well-built beneath the heavy leather armor.

If nothing else, the swords would intimidate. _Two swords… Why does that sound familiar?_ Jaskier scratches his chin. He tries again at the drink.

“Maybe we should hire a guard,” he suggests later.

“I don’t think he was looking for a job,” Priscilla responds.

“I didn’t mean _him_.”

She fixes him with her stare.

“I doubt we’ll ever see him again.”

~ ~ ~

“They call him the Butcher of Blaviken!” Dainty spreads his fingers wide and makes a face. “And he’s _here_! In Novigrad!”

“Come now, Dainty. I doubt this witcher fellow is as bad as all that.”

“You never take anything seriously, Jaskier.”

“I do too. I just know how storytelling works.”

“You know what they say—where there’s smoke there’s fire,” Dainty insists.

“Maybe a spark.”

“I’m just telling you what everyone is saying. I need to protect my interests, too. If he comes here, just, just don’t give him any reason to come back.”

“Dainty, I don’t even know what a witcher looks like.”

“I heard they’re hideously ugly, with armor that reeks of rotten corpses and massive swords.”

“Well, then I’ll watch out for an ugly giant who smells like a dead body.”

Dainty shakes his head. “I should have known you wouldn’t take it seriously. Dudu says he’s leaving town. A witcher would _kill_ him, Dandelion.”

Jaskier leans back in his chair. They’ve taken the front table, and he can see out to the busy street. The afternoon sun streams through the window panes like a kaleidoscope. Jaskier opens his hand and watches the colors play on his palm. “I’m sure that’s not true. Dudu isn’t a monster, and everyone knows witchers kill monsters.”

“He isn’t human—that’s enough for the likes of these witchers.”

“ _You_ aren’t a human, Dainty.”

“I know. There’s no telling what he thinks of halflings. I should probably get out of town, too!”

“That isn’t what I meant.” Jaskier pushes his mug toward him. “It’s getting cold.”

Dainty nods and takes a drink. “Ah! Ah! Hot!” he sputters. “You said it was getting cold!”

Jaskier rolls his eyes. He’s having tea, today. It’s mixed with spices smuggled out of Nilfgaard, and sweetened with honey.

“Oh! They wear those medallions, too. The witchers. Big, ugly medallions that shake around magic.”

“Right, I’ll look for an ugly giant who smells bad and wears weird jewelry.”

“Good. Good.”

“Anyway, how’s the family?”

“Worried, like everyone else. Like you should be.”

Jaskier leans forward. “Fine. I’ll be worried, okay? Maybe I should just shut the place down.”

“You had better not! I’m counting on a return on my investment with those beans, Jaskier.”

Jaskier laughs. “See?”

Dainty makes a sour face before he takes another drink.

“And anyway, what would a witcher want coffee for?” Jaskier asks. “I very much doubt he’ll visit The Chameleon.” The door opens behind Dainty, letting in a gust of balmy air and the tall, enigmatic stranger from the day before. “I’ll be back.”

Dainty nods and turns his nervous attention back to the street as he sips his coffee.

The stranger waits for Jaskier at the bar. He looks around, curious. It almost looks like he’s nervous himself, as if he’s checking dark corners and possible means of escape. “I promise there’s no monsters—or scary monster hunters—here today,” Jaskier teases.

The man’s eyebrows shoot up. “What does that mean?” His voice is deep. Very deep.

“My friend Dainty Biberveldt over there was just regaling me with scary stories about a new villain recently arrived in our fair, free city. As if anything could be more terrifying than the religious fanatics and crime bosses we already contend with.”

The man frowns. “Hmm.”

“It’s nothing to worry about, I’m sure.”

“You aren’t afraid of villains and crime bosses?”

Jaskier shrugs. “It all just makes a good story, right?”

“If you live to tell it.”

Jaskier grins. “What can I get you?”

The man looks around again. “Where are your friends today?”

“Oh. Uh, Priscilla went to the bank. I’m sure she’ll be back before long, if you want to speak to her.”

“And the dwarf?”

“He roasts the beans, so he’s in the back.”

“Then you aren’t here alone.”

“No?”

The man nods. “I’ll have the same as before.” He turns and efficiently walks back to the same table. It’s to one side of the café, beneath an intricate tapestry depicting a wistful scene of courtly love _._ He doesn’t remove his swords. Jaskier tears his eyes away and gets to work.

Priscilla, as it turns out, returns just as he finishes. “Our friend is here,” she stage-whispers, taking the mug from his hands.

“He asked after you.”

Her brow furrows in confusion.

“He also asked about Zoltan.” He waggles his eyebrows.

She makes a face. “Right.” She carries the drink over to the stranger, and Jaskier wipes his hands, twisting the rag. He watches Priscilla drop down into the seat across from the man, long legs curled up beside her. _It won’t take her long_ , Jaskier thinks. He returns to Dainty’s table.

He’s still there when the man leaves.

~ ~ ~

The next day is busy. It’s nearly time for luncheon before Jaskier manages to drink his own second cup. They’re nearly out of seats when the stranger shows up. Jaskier spots him over the rim of his mug. He watches him take a few steps in, uneasily scanning the room. _Your table is taken_ , Jaskier thinks. The man looks up and meets his gaze. His eyes are a strange amber-gold color. Jaskier swallows. The man turns around and leaves.

No one else probably noticed.

~ ~ ~

Two days pass before the man returns. It's afternoon. This time, Jaskier really is alone in the café. “You,” he says, watching the man approach.

The man’s lips press together, firm.

“Erm. Right.” Jaskier forces himself to smile, and the man’s eyes narrow in response. “Welcome back.”

“Mm.”

“Same as before?”

“Fine.”

“What do you mean, fine? Do you want something else?”

“No.”

“Well I can make you something else that you would probably really like.”

The man watches him take up a mug. He continues to frown.

 _A challenge_. Jaskier feels his blood start to flow. “I’ve been working on something that’s a little sweet and just tiny bit salty—”

“Salty?”

“Yes, salty. It brings out the flavor, and it’s so smooth. The way it’ll feel on your tongue—you’ve never had anything like it.”

The man continues to stare. “Fine,” he says, finally.

Jaskier gets to work with the cream. “Your table, as you can see, is free today.”

“My table?”

“The table beneath the Viziman tapestry. Actually, I think it may be Cintran, but I bought it from a Temerian merchant… from Vizima, of course. This is a burnt sugar I learned to make in Vizima several years ago, coincidentally. Have you ever been?”

“Mm.”

“I haven’t been in years, but I understand things are turning around for Temeria in general. Of course, I’m here every day now, so who knows when I’ll be traveling again?” He looks up. The stranger is watching him. “How about yourself?”

“What about me?”

“Well, have you been through Temeria lately?”

“Not for several months.”

“Probably for the best anyway. Last I heard they were dealing with all sorts of problems still. Though it does look like you can probably defend yourself with your, erm, hands.”

“You talk a lot.”

Jaskier sniffs. “You… don’t talk a lot. Or is that just right now?”

The man just looks at him. He doesn’t blink.

“Right.” Jaskier continues to make the drink. “Uh, if you want, I can bring this to you.”

The man finally blinks. He turns.

“I’m Jaskier, by the way. Julian Alfred Pankratz, at your service.”

The man stops. He turns back, looking vaguely disgruntled. He makes a grumbling sound.

“Sorry?”

“Do you want me to sit, or do you want me to talk?”

“Do you talk, then?”

He glares at him, so Jaskier chuckles. “This is my place. You can go ahead and sit.” The man doesn’t move. “Uh… So this is The Chameleon, formerly Rosemary and Thyme—not the _most_ distinguished brothel in this fair city, but also not the least.” He sprinkles a pinch of sea salt into the coffee. The man watches his hands move between tasks. He stares so _intently_. Jaskier pauses. “I’m sorry, you should go sit. I’ll bring this over when I’m done.”

The man nods, grunts, and goes to his table. _It’s his table, now_ , Jaskier thinks. The thought warms him. He pours the drink into a piece of crockery, stoppers it, and shakes it until he knows it will be foamy and thick. When he pours it back into the oversized mug, the aroma washes over him. He’s excited about this one. He thinks he might name it.

“You can probably take those off, you know,” he tells the man as he delivers it.

“What?”

“The swords. It’s a little excessive for a café.”

The man frowns. “Are you here by yourself?”

“Yes?”

“You shouldn’t be here by yourself.”

“Why?”

“If thugs come back looking for a brothel, there could be trouble.”

Jaskier slides the mug closer to him. “I’m not entirely defenseless, you know.”

The man looks skeptical.

“I’m not! If I can’t outwit them, I’ll bash in their heads with a pitcher.” He leans forward. “I’m very good with my hands, you know.”

The man leans back. His nostrils flare a little. He picks up the mug and takes a drink.

“I haven’t seen you around here before this week, have I?”

“No.”

“Where are you from?”

The man takes another drink. “This is good.”

“Thank you!” Warmth blooms in Jaskier’s chest, and he feels his smile expand. The man’s frown increases in intensity.

“Mm.”

“Do you travel a lot, then? You look like some sort of… adventurer.”

“Yes.”

“I’ve traveled some, too. Have you had much coffee, then, before? There aren’t many places like this around Novigrad, at least.”

“Some.”

Jaskier leans forward further. “Really? And how do you think mine compares?”

“I thought the dwarf roasted the beans.”

“Well, yes, but we learned together. I mean, this is my place. And that drink—you like it? I’m thinking of keeping it on. Maybe naming it.”

“What?”

“Naming it. You know, so it’s easier to order. ‘Coffee’ is too vague, you know? Like wine. You name types of wine.”

“Based on the vineyard or the grapes.”

“Exactly! So maybe this is our signature drink! Yes! It can be ‘the chameleon.’”

“That’s a terrible name.”

“It is not! It’s the name of the café!”

“It’s a terrible name for a café, too.”

“What?! It is not! Why do you say that?”

“A chameleon is a lizard. The is nothing remotely reptilian about this place.”

“I disagree. Chameleons change. They adapt. Like me—us.”

“Reptiles are cold blooded. There is nothing cold here.”

“I can let the coffee sit and cool.”

“I’m not talking about the drinks.”

“Oh.” Jaskier meets the man’s eyes. The warmth in his chest migrates upward, to his cheeks.

The man seems entirely unfazed, again. And then, almost imperceptibly, the corner of his mouth turns up into a hint of a smile.

Jaskier’s stomach lurches up into his chest. He looks down from the man’s gaze. “Huh,” he says. “That’s an interesting pendant.”

The man points. “This?”

“Yeah. Is that, like, your family sigil?”

“Kind of.”

“Really? What’s your name?”

“Geralt.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier repeats. He realizes his voice drops as he says it, almost like he’s imitating the man. He clears his throat. “Geralt doesn’t seem particularly lupine.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“So… it’s your family name?”

“It represents the School of the Wolf.”

It sounds vaguely familiar, but Jaskier draws a blank.

“It’s for recognition.”

“To recognize what?”

“I’m a witcher.”

Several things click into place, suddenly. Jaskier blinks. “Oh.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm treating myself with an early update.

If pressed, Geralt would say he’s sticking around Novigrad while he investigates some business with Dijkstra. He’s never been a fan of the city. It’s crowded. It’s loud. It smells bad, even to him. Additionally, the seedy underbelly is lined with a religious zealotry that frankly makes him uncomfortable. Humans have their superstitions, they always have (as have elves, dwarves, halflings, and all manner of creatures), but the Eternal Fire is a special case. Chaos and Order are undeniable forces—he’s seen them at work. The Eternal Fire, on the other hand, doesn’t have _force_ as much as _goons_ , like the Order of the Flaming Rose… Geralt shakes his head. It’s never good to form such fixed opinions about human matters like this. He’s seen the Eternal Fire rise in this city, and he’ll see it fall, eventually. As ever, there will be evil on both sides of the debate. There may also be good on at least one side, although it’s rarer.

This place feels good.

It’s… weird. Geralt has traveled across the Continent. He’s drank in taverns in Kaer Trolde and dined with nobles in Beauclair, but he hasn’t ever visited a place quite like The Chameleon.

The ~~barkeep~~ ~~shopkeeper~~ slightly irritating, talkative man who runs the establishment is staring at him, and Geralt has to retrace the conversation in his head. _He doesn’t know who I am. Or didn’t._ The man must, now. Geralt isn’t famous so much as he’s infamous. _The Butcher of Blaviken_. He watches Jaskier’s eyes track steadily from his medallion, across his shoulders to his swords, then up to his hair, and finally to his eyes. He actually looks him in the eye, which, Geralt supposes, will at least be a courtesy when he gives him the boot. _Or worse. He could be too afraid to._

“Oh,” Jaskier repeats.

Geralt lifts an eyebrow. Jaskier tilts his head to the side and continues to look him in the eye. He doesn’t look scared. He just looks confused. Geralt takes another drink.

Never, ever, in the decades he has lived, has Geralt tasted something exactly like this drink. If he didn’t know better, he might wonder if it involved some sort of sorcery. But he watched it being made. “Is it the salt?” he asks.

Jaskier eyebrows knit together. “What?”

“Why does this taste good?”

Jaskier scoffs. “Really, Geralt. Because I made it taste good. Because we use only the finest beans, and we source them from Tir Tochair _and_ Dol Blathanna.”

“Why both?”

“Different growing conditions in different climates.”

Geralt nods. He tilts his head to the side, too. “So two humans and a dwarf run a café with help from a halfling who trades with gnomes and elves?”

Jaskier leans back in his chair. He finally looks away, and Geralt can’t decide if that makes him happy or not. _Why isn’t he scared of me?_ “The salt, like I said, enhances the rest of the flavors. So the sweetness of the burnt sugar and the cream mixes with the rich, nutty flavor of this coffee.”

“How much am I paying for this?”

“How much do you think it’s worth?” His eyes are a soft blue, like the sky, and they return to Geralt. He’s wearing a scarlet doublet and trousers, and it’s a ridiculous combination that Geralt assumes must be considered fashionable these days. He thinks he’d probably look better in something simpler, but then changes his mind. _Why does it matter?_ He wrenches himself back to the conversation, again.

Instead of answering, Geralt drops forty crowns on the table. It’s a stupid amount of money for coffee, but he’s flush with coin from Dijkstra for killing a hag in the sewers beneath the bathhouse. He swallows the last of his drink, while Jaskier’s eyes go wide.

The coffee is warm. It makes his chest feel warm, and not in a way that burns, like liquor. This is a radiant warmth that feels good. He decides it’s worth it, leaves the crowns on the table, nods to Jaskier, and heads back out into the bustling street.

~ ~ ~

He doesn’t mean to keep going back. He’s using the Kingfisher to rest, and it’s a nice inn. The people there are as tolerable as can reasonably be expected in Novigrad. When he ends his meditations the next morning, he thinks about dropping forty crowns on one drink. _Stupid_ , he thinks. He wonders how many colorful sets of clothing Jaskier could possibly own. It’s a nonsensical line of thought. _Pointless_. He eats some plain bread. He thinks how nice it would be to have a mug of hot coffee to wash it down with.

He takes a contract and spends the day tracking down a fleder, which scratches the hell out of his shoulder before he’s finished with it. The incident doesn’t seem connected to any others in the immediate vicinity, so he takes himself back to the Kingfisher to recover.

~ ~ ~

“You’re back,” Jaskier says.

“Mm.”

He smiles, and Geralt wonders if something is wrong. “I wasn’t sure…”

“Why?”

“Uh, um… I just wasn’t.”

“Has it been quiet here?”

“Quiet? No.”

Geralt feels himself instinctively react. Jaskier seems unharmed. The woman, also, looks the same as before. The dwarf isn’t present. He immediately checks the vicinity for signs of altercation, sees if he can hear or smell anything out of place. “Hmm. The smell of coffee is… It isn’t good.”

“What!? The smell of coffee is, in fact, excellent. Especially the smell of The Chameleon’s coffee. What are you—actually what _are_ you doing?”

“What happened?”

“What?”

“Was it yesterday?”

“I… do _not_ follow. Geralt, what are you talking about?”

The woman smirks. Geralt ignores her.

“It hasn’t been quiet, you said.”

“Oh! No, not because of anything bad. We don’t want it to be quiet. We have been busy. That’s good. I mean, except for you, I suppose—you did _leave_ that one time because we were busy.” The woman smirks again; they both ignore it. “I mean, I understand you develop habits, but it seems a bit soon to fixate on a single table and refuse to sit anywhere else. Even if it is under really, I admit, a _very_ nice tapestry.”

Geralt turns to look at this tapestry Jaskier keeps talking about. He turns back. “Hm.”

“It’s _nice_ , Geralt.”

“The table has good sight lines.”

The woman laughs, for some reason.

“You… are… something. Right. Would you like a coffee?”

Geralt knows he’s scowling. He decides he doesn’t care. “That’s why I’m here.”

Inexplicably, the woman laughs again. Jaskier turns. “Really, Priscilla, are you quite alright?”

“I am good, Dandelion.” _Dandelion?_ She grins at Jaskier.

_Are they flirting?_ Jaskier huffs. “Geralt, this is Priscilla. Priscilla, this is Geralt. Priscilla makes coffee and sings like an angel. Geralt… uh, kills monsters, I guess.”

“It is nice to meet you,” she says. “By name, that is.”

“Likewise.”

She grins. “I’ll bring your coffee over when it’s ready.”

He glances at Jaskier, then goes to ~~his~~ a table and sits. _My table_ , he thinks. He looks around again, letting himself relax. A few other patrons linger around the café. Two young women share a table near the front. A wizened old man sits nearby, reading. Geralt gets out his journal. He records both the hag and the fleder. He has just started to sketch his injury when Priscilla arrives with his drink, so he hastily tucks it away.

He thanks her, then drinks in silence.

~ ~ ~

The more Geralt works with Dijkstra, the more acquainted he becomes with the organized crime that runs Novigrad. And the more acquainted Geralt is with the Big Four, the more he wonders just how it is that Jaskier came to own The Chameleon.

It’s none of his business.

It just doesn’t make much sense. The man didn’t win it at cards, surely.

_It doesn’t matter._ He wonders if maybe he’s rich. _It would explain the clothes and taste in tapestries_. It wouldn’t explain the dealings with gnomes and dwarves and the like, however. Redanian wealth doesn’t usually correlate with tolerance. And Jaskier didn’t actually confirm that he trades with elves, but Geralt has been to Dol Blathanna, and he can make an educated guess.

He’s just curious. He slices a drowner in half, wipes his hands and blade, and lets his legs carry him to the café. His neck hurts. It does smell good, even outside the door. There are more people, though, and Geralt takes fewer than a dozen steps into the building before he realizes what he looks like.

Jaskier is already watching him, half-amused and half-concerned. No one else seems to pay attention, so Geralt continues, leans near, and asks, “Do you have a place I can just…”

“Tidy up a bit?”

“Mm.”

“Follow me.” Jaskier leads him to the back, where there’s a hand pump. “It’s connected to the cistern,” he explains, filling a bucket. “The cistern collects rain water, but of course we can always supplement it if there’s need. We use quite a lot of water." He lazily splashes a hand in it. "It has a very clever filtration system that has actually been around for ages, you know. I remember reading about it at the Academy, although I didn’t think I’d ever need that sort of knowledge at the time.” He continues, “I don’t think I’ve told you about my days at the Academy, have I? No? Well I studied in Oxenfurt. I studied the liberal arts, and now I make coffee. Who would have ever guessed that?” He laughs. “I think most of my fellow alumni are off traveling the countryside as bards and petty thieves… Or teaching, I suppose.”

Geralt unstraps his swords and leans them against the wall. He peels off his armor, and then splashes water up onto his face. He rubs it onto the back of his neck and rolls his shoulders. When he looks up, Jaskier is standing still, holding a towel and watching him. His jaw has gone slack.

“Sorry,” Geralt mutters. “I forgot to do it before...”

Jaskier seems to shake himself. “No, no worries.” His voice has gone up in pitch.

“What did you want to do?”

“Huh?”

“After Oxenfurt?”

“Ah. Well, I was singing. I’m a poet, you know. And one of my patrons gifted me The Chameleon. Of course, it looked nothing like this at the time. Priscilla was outraged. It took quite a bit to transform it into my café.” He looks up at the walls as if he’s admiring the timbers. “Not many people seemed to believe anyone would want to just drink coffee, and yet...”

“Here you are.”

Jaskier’s eyes are bright. “Exactly.” His cheeks are pink.

“And your patron?”

“Dead.”

“Shame.”

“Mm, maybe.”

Geralt rinses the bulk of guts off his armor, and then dumps the waste into the back gutter. “Thanks,” he says.

“Now you want a drink?” Jaskier grins.

Geralt nods.

~ ~ ~

It isn’t coffee, this time. “Jaskier.”

“Yes?” he drawls.

“What the fuck is this?”

“Geralt!” he chides, looking around at the other visitors. “It’s tea.”

“This isn’t tea. I’ve had tea.”

“It _is_ , though. It’s tea we’ve sourced from Zerrikania, flavored with bergamot orange, and a hint of sugar.” He makes his way across the room as he talks. Everyone’s eyes follow him, whether he means them to or not.

“There’s milk in it.”

“Yes. With a nice, fine froth _and_ just a faint hint of vanilla bean.”

“Vanilla bean?”

“Also from Zerrikania.”

“What are you going to do when the next war breaks out?”

“Well that very much depends on the war, doesn’t it? But seeing as I’m not a soldier…”

“Trade routes. How are you getting these ingredients? This has to be costly.”

“My halfling friend—whom I believe Priscilla told you about—and his… cousin,” Jaskier explains.

_That’s a lie_ , Geralt thinks. _He’s bad at that._

“They are very clever with numbers and contracts.”

“You just trust them to handle all of that for you?”

Jaskier’s eyes are guileless. “Of course,” he answers.

Geralt takes another drink and it gives him that warm feeling again. “Hmm,” he says. “I guess it will do.”

“So you _do_ like it?” Jaskier bites his lip.

The warmth increases. “Mm.”

He’s rewarded with an absurd smile. Jaskier plops down across from him. His eyes track downward, and Geralt realizes his shirt is still fairly soaked with a mixture of sweat and water. “What were you covered in?” Jaskier asks.

“Viscera.”

“Ah. Well that’s just,” he shakes his head, “lovely. Thanks for the unforgettable image.”

“Sorry I tracked it into your café.”

“I suppose it may hold a certain sort of appeal for the curious. You’re _famous_ , did you know?”

“Not that famous.”

“Oh?”

“You didn’t know who I was.”

“I’ve heard stories, now, though,” he says, leaning in, “of how spooky and big and _bad_ you are.” His lips curve up with mirth and mischief.

“This tea is good,” Geralt says. The warmth lingers; it’s nice. “And aren’t you scared?”

He knows the answer—even the coffee smell isn’t strong enough for the short distance between them. “No,” Jaskier replies. And Geralt knew, but the warmth expands anyway, so he takes another drink.

~ ~ ~

Geralt finishes updating his journal after breakfast. He sketches a rough map of the city, and then makes symbols where he’s been in combat over the past fortnight. He notes his injuries. He’s going to need to forage outside the city soon for potion ingredients.

The pages in this book are nearly full. Geralt could probably retire it soon. It’s filled with notes, drawings, and scraps of letters or postings he’s collected over the past year. He will need a new one, and they take time to make to his specifications.

The book merchant’s shop in Hierarch Square is quiet. It’s cool and dry, and it smells like paper. “I need it to be exactly like this one,” Geralt tells the merchant.

The merchant nods. “You can browse, if you like, while I take a look at it.”

Geralt hands it to him. The binding is specifically stitched, and the leather is stiff, but not rigid. The fibers are durable. He needs paper, not vellum or parchment, and it needs to be high quality. He wanders as he waits.

This shop is one of the largest like it on the Continent, Geralt knows. He sees a few titles he knows: _Lara Dorren and Cregennan of Lod_ , _Journey to the End of the World, Lure of the Temptress_. Others, he’s less familiar with. He sees a book of ballads and remembers Jaskier saying he’s a poet. “Hm,” he says.

“Something catch your eye?” asks the merchant.

“No,” Geralt says. It’s wrapped in blue leather.

“Well, I think I can have something for you in a couple of days.”

Geralt nods.

“Are you sure you don’t want the ballads? It’s an expansive collection. I’ve not seen many like it.”

“I’m sure. How much for the journal?” He looks back at the book as they negotiate, and he ends up agreeing to a much higher price than he’d usually insist on. He shakes his head. “See you in a couple of days.”

~ ~ ~

“That was the _second_ time I had coffee. And after that, the cat was out of the bag. They couldn’t keep it away from us students. Of course, there was mixed opinion about the effects.” Jaskier chuckles. “Some insisted it renewed vigor, helped focus. Not everyone saw that as a good thing.”

“Why would vigor and focus be bad?” Geralt asks.

Jaskier shrugs. “Oh,” he says, setting down a mug on Geralt’s table. “Here you go. You know how some people are. Anything that makes you feel good is bad, right?” His lips curve up into a little smile, and Geralt watches him as he takes a drink. The warmth returns.

“It does feel good,” he admits. The afternoon sun washes the room in a golden haze. It seems to shroud Jaskier in light, and the longer Geralt watches him, the more he seems to glow. He looks so pleased that Geralt likes his coffee.

Eventually, Jaskier starts to fidget. “What is that?” he asks, pointing to the nearly-full journal, which Geralt was adding to while Jaskier prepared his drink.

Geralt hums. “I keep a record of everything I’m working on. And a beastiary.” He slides it across the table, and Jaskier takes it as an invitation to sit down.

“Wow,” he murmurs, turning pages. Geralt drinks, watching him.

“You… you may not want to see some of that.”

“This is you?” Jaskier asks. He points to a sketch Geralt did a few months ago, showing where a siren’s talons had gouged his side.

“Mm.”

Jaskier’s silvery-blue eyes are soulful and sad as he looks back at Geralt. “There are so many,” he whispers.

Geralt swallows. “Mm.” He sips his coffee. “It’s who I am.”

Jaskier runs his fingers across a letter Geralt found at an abandoned camp outside Brugge. “And you keep these?”

“I use them to find what happened to victims.”

Jaskier watches him drain the last of his cup. “You have everyone fooled, don’t you?” His lips are curled into that smile again, but the look in his eyes is different. Geralt tries to decipher it as he watches him close the journal.

“What do you mean?”

Jaskier picks up the journal and holds it out. “You’re noble, aren’t you? _Good._ ”

“No. I don’t—”

“Your _P_ _ath_. Don’t look at me like that. I’ve had days to read up on you, witcher.” He wets his lips. “You save people.”

Geralt reaches out and takes the book. His fingers cover Jaskier’s, and they’re warm, too, until he pulls back. He looks away.

Jaskier doesn’t move for a moment. He touches one hand with the other, just breathing. Geralt returns the book to his pocket. He clenches his fists. Then he pays. “I’ll see you later Jaskier.”

He walks out. His skin feels tight. His hand burns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story definitely hasn't seen much traffic. I'm not really sure what to think about that, other than that I'm really thankful for those of you who are giving it a chance! I'm still enjoying it and I hope you are, too.
> 
> I hope you liked this update. I always like to see different POVs when I read, but I don't always do it as a writer. Hopefully it works for you! It was just too tempting to write Geralt's perspective of this odd little place.
> 
> If you're up to it, I'd love to know what you think so far or are hoping to see!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Revisions were tough today, so this is later than I wanted. Hopefully it's worth the few extra hours of waiting!

Jaskier blends a tea that he sells to help people sleep. It’s something like an apothecary would make, but it tastes far better. It’s even better with a generous helping of honey. Chamomile and valerian are involved, and it’s more potent than some low-level sleep potions he’s seen used.

He drinks three cups before his heart stops pounding.

He sits on a stool in the back corner of the café, catatonic, while business continues around him.

If Geralt had just brushed a hand against him, he thinks he would have been able to handle it, ignore it, or at least cover up the surge of… feeling. _But it lingered_ , he thinks. It lingered long enough to be noticed. His skin tingles. He feels like he’s going to come out of it.

Jaskier curses himself. _Why do you do this?_ His lips are dry, and he bites at the bottom. He stares at his hands and tries to stop shaking his leg.

“Dandelion?” Priscilla approaches slowly and gently places her hand on his shoulder. He lets out a hum in response. “Do you want to talk about it?”

He forces his eyes to focus on her. “No. Nothing to talk about.”

She puts her hands on her hips. “Nothing? Really? Because you’ve been sitting here for over an hour composing sonnets in your head.”

“Not sonnets. A dirge.”

She rolls her eyes. “So dramatic. Anyway, I need you to focus. We need to talk.”

“What about?”

“I’ve been asked to perform at the Butcher’s Yard.”

“A truly atrocious name for a theatre.”

“It adds a certain edge.”

“When are you performing?”

“Well, that’s the thing. Irina asked me if I’d like to join the troupe.”

The feeling in Jaskier’s chest changes. “Oh?”

“I told her no.”

He sighs in relief.

“You thought I’d just abandon you like that?”

“I know you love to sing.”

“So do you. I also love this place.”

Jaskier smiles. “Thank you.”

“But it made me think,” she says. He quirks an eyebrow, and she continues. “We have this space, and our business wraps up by late afternoon. And we have so many friends with special talents…” She twirls a strand of hair around her finger.

“You want to turn The Chameleon into a theatre?”

“No! Not that. I just think it might be nice to have an open place some nights, where our friends can gather. Something that isn’t as rowdy as the theatres and taverns, but where you could play your lute… or I could play mine.”

“We could sing.”

“We could sing,” she agrees.

“That… could actually work.”

“I’ll start planning.”

~ ~ ~

_I imagined it_ , Jaskier thinks. Geralt stands across the bar from him, face impassive. Jaskier’s face feels like it’s burning. He feels like a flight of swallows has nested in his chest. “Jaskier,” Geralt says as greeting.

“Hi—hello, uh welcome.”

Geralt’s eyes narrow. “Are you okay?”

“Of course. Yes. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You’re agitated.”

“Am I?” He lets a small laugh, and then realizes it sounds slightly hysterical. He clears his throat.

Geralt leans forward a tiny bit. “You are.”

“I’m not agitated,” Jaskier argues.

“Yes, you are.”

“I think _I_ would know better than you if _I_ am agitated.”

Geralt sniffs. “Did something happen?”

“No? Like what?”

“You can tell me, Jaskier. Did someone threaten you?”

“Oh gods no. Not at all.”

Geralt stares at him. His eyes move over him as if he’s inspecting fruit for bruises. “Hmm,” he hums. “Because if…”

“What?”

“I don’t know what kind of…” He hums again. “Look. I… I know Sigismund Dijkstra.”

Jaskier opens his mouth to respond, and then closes it. _Does he think I’m involved with Dijkstra’s crowd?_ “Everyone in Novigrad knows Dijkstra.” He looks to his side, but Priscilla has somehow vanished. “He basically runs the city.” Jaskier laughs, “I mean, if you own a bathhouse or a brothel, you own a lot of secrets, right?”

Geralt does not look amused. “Did Whoreson Senior leave you this building?”

“Uhh, um, well, yes. How do you know that?”

“I told you, I know Dijkstra.”

“Okay…”

“And it isn’t _normal_ for a crime boss to bequeath a brothel to a poet.”

“I was more of a troubadour, actually.” He looks at his fingernails. “A _very talented_ troubadour. I’m more than just coffee, you know. I contain multitudes.” He leans forward across the bar, until his face is so close to Geralt’s, he can almost feel his breath. “You would leave me buildings, too, if you heard me sing.” He lets his lips curl up into a fetching smile.

Geralt’s frown intensifies. “This is serious, Jaskier. If Wiley left you this building—”

“He was a patron of the arts!” Jaskier stands back up, reluctantly.

“Just—stay away from his son. That’s all I wanted to say.”

“What? Why?”

“Because he’s…” Geralt makes a face. “He’s _bad._ Just, stay away from him.” His eyes seem to pierce Jaskier.

“Okay, Geralt. I will. I don’t even know him.”

“Good.” He spins around and walks to his table. He yanks out his usual chair, and a wooden plank snaps off of the back. “Fuck.” He looks up at Jaskier, holding the piece with one hand. His other hand is raised in a helpless gesture. His eyes scan the café, and he seems to realize everyone (six people) is staring at him. Jaskier sees him press his lips together. He sets the piece of wood on the table, carefully slides out a different chair, and sits. He ignores the stares until they go away. He ignores the whispers.

Jaskier continues to watch. As the others eyes turn away, he can see Geralt breathe deeply. His fingers run across the splintered wood. He grimaces. He’s wearing a sort of studded leather doublet or jacket, and he reaches into the breast pocket and pulls out his journal. Jaskier’s stomach turns over as he remembers flipping through it. He starts with hot milk, this time, and sugar. He reaches down, behind the bar, and pulls out a jar sealed with a metal clamp. He unclips it, and carefully spoons a few heaps of powder into the milk. He adds a little cream, for good measure, and then mixes it. He pours a dark roast into the mug, and then adds his concoction.

“I’m… sorry,” Geralt says when he nears.

Jaskier sits across from him. “You didn’t break it on purpose. These chairs have seen better days, I’m sure.” He grins. “And probably worse days, too, I imagine. I mean, this place used to belong to a notorious crime boss with a horrible son. _Who I don’t know_.” He slides the mug across the table. “Your drink.”

“Mm.” Geralt picks it up, leans close, and smells it. He looks at the drink, and then looks questioningly at Jaskier.

“It’s something I picked up awhile back… through Dainty’s cousin.”

“Cousin.”

“Mmm hmm. Dudu.” _Who you would never kill because he isn’t a monster. He just happens to be a doppler._

“And what is this that your friend Dainty’s… _cousin_ … got you?”

“It’s from a plant called the cacao. They treat the beans, dry them, I’m not entirely sure how the process works because it isn’t the same as coffee, and they told me they extract something from the bean and this is the rest—I sent a letter asking for details, but I haven’t received anything back yet. It just seems if _this_ is the leftovers, what must be the main event? Or maybe I misunderstood them and they extract the rest to leave this.” He’s giving more information than he needs to give, but Geralt is listening, and he doesn’t look upset anymore. Not that he really _did_ look upset, but his jaw did that thing when he sat down, Jaskier could see, like he was grinding his teeth maybe, or just clenching it, and anyway it’s relaxed now, and Jaskier shakes himself. “Uh, anyway, it’s from Zangvebar.”

“Zangvebar?”

“Yeah.”

“How the fuck do you have contacts in Zangvebar?”

“Oh, well, Dudu knows a lot of people.” Geralt narrows his eyes, so Jaskier adds, “And a lot of people come through Oxenfurt, you know. I met all sorts of people while I was there. And this is Novigrad. Everybody wants to be here, Geralt.”

Geralt taps his hand on the tabletop. When he speaks, his voice sounds slightly strangled. “I don’t like to get involved in these things,” he mutters.

“Well that’s quite clearly bullshit.”

“What?”

Jaskier points to the journal. “Not fooling me. You are like a… _prince_ of getting involved. A duke. A veritable knight in shining armor.”

“I am _not_ a knight in shining armor.”

“You _say_ that, _but_ … You’re also trying to warn me about Whoreson Junior.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “Maybe you’re just _my_ knight in shining armor.” He grins and Geralt scowls.

“Plate armor is entirely impractical for most combat.”

“I don’t think it’s for combat as much as just looking heroic and, you know… manly.”

Geralt finally picks up his mug. “You don’t think my armor looks masculine?”

It isn’t spoken like an invitation, but Jaskier accepts it nonetheless. He lets himself look at Geralt’s leather—even if it isn’t traditional armor. It’s closely tailored to his body. Jaskier knows it doesn’t need padding to fill out the shoulders; Geralt really is built like something out of a fever dream. His waist is trim. Jaskier remembers the way his wet shirt had clung to his body, hinting at the lines and ridges underneath. He feels nearly the same now, taking in the leather and metal studs. And then Geralt takes a sip.

Jaskier studied music, among other things, at the Oxenfurt Academy. He has perfect pitch, has since birth, probably. He can hear a child sing an imagined tune, and then replicate it from memory. He can name the key of birdsong. He hears rhythm in footsteps, horse hooves, and wagon wheels. He _knows_ sounds.

He will never, in all his life, forget the sound Geralt makes when he tastes the drink.

He bites hard on his lip to keep from imitating it. It’s a bad habit he’s tried to shake. He picks up accents easily, too, and people think he’s mocking them. It’s hardest to stop when the sound is beautiful. He loves beautiful sounds, and something in him wants to make them, too. He’ll settle for making sure he hears it again, any way he can.

Jaskier ponders it: unlike Geralt’s usual hums, this was higher in pitch, and almost musical. _It was almost erotic_ , Jaskier thinks. He licks his lips. He’s suddenly very conscious of looking far too long at Geralt’s chest, picturing him in that wet shirt. He wonders what he’s wearing beneath his leather today.

He wonders if it has a deep-cut neck and laces at the top, revealing chest hair and sweat beneath his medallion. “I don’t think it would be possible for you to look more masculine,” Jaskier says. He realizes his voice has taken on that low husk, too, like an affected speech pattern. It isn’t purposeful, but he’s doing it.

Geralt takes another drink. He leans close to the cup again and breathes it in. Then he looks up at Jaskier. Jaskier looks back. The pupils are dilated in his golden eyes.

_He really likes coffee_ , he thinks. He watches him take another drink. His lips are wet. Jaskier swallows. He absently reaches up and presses at the dry skin he’s worried on his lip. Geralt watches his fingers.

Jaskier’s hand shakes as he pulls it away. “I should probably get back to work,” he whispers.

Geralt nods. When he takes his next drink, he closes his eyes. Jaskier watches his shoulders go slack. He picks up the broken chair back and walks away.

~ ~ ~

The carpenter shows up the next day. It’s a dwarf woman name Bagoreth. “I’m here to fix a chair,” she announces.

Jaskier just stares at her. Priscilla pushes him aside. “It’s just here,” she says, and leads her away. When she returns, she gives him a long, hard look. “Now are you ready to talk about it?”

“There is nothing to talk about,” he insists.

“But? I sense a but.”

“ _Priscilla_ …”

“Just be careful, okay?”

“I am always careful.”

“You are _never_ careful.”

"She's right, lad," Zoltan calls from across the room. "Ye never are."

~ ~ ~

Being careful quickly becomes a theme.

“Dainty! I thought you left town.”

“Jaskier! I _told_ you! What the absolute shit are you doing?”

“What?”

Dainty marches around the bar, grips Jaskier’s doublet, and pulls him down to his face. “I _told you_ that if that _witcher_ came here, you should make sure he _didn’t_ come back. Not bring him back _every damn day_!”

“Hey, hey, Dainty, calm down! It’s fine! It’s fine! Geralt is nice!”

“ _Geralt_?!”

“Yes, that’s his name.”

“ _HE IS the BUTCHER—_ ”

“Shhh!”

“Of Blaviken!” Dainty finishes in a squeaky whisper.

“That’s just ridiculous, Dainty. He’s… He isn’t like that at all. Why, just yesterday he broke a chair—”

“What?!”

“ _And_ he had it fixed this morning!”

“He broke a chair.”

“Yes, but he didn’t _mean to_. He’s just…” Jaskier sighs. “He’s so strong, Dainty.”

“Oh gods give me mercy.”

“What?”

“I need a drink.”

“I’ll make you one. What do you want? My treat.”

“It’s _my_ treat, Jaskier. _I_ bankroll this place.”

Jaskier stares at him for a moment. “No, you don’t,” he says. “You’re a trade partner. And that isn’t really the same thing. You _invest_ in beans and spices, which I pay you for. Which I have _been_ paying you for.”

Dainty’s eyes widen. “I can’t believe you would… fight with me… over a witcher!”

“One, I’m not fighting with you. Two, it isn’t over a witcher. It’s over a customer, and a person.”

Dainty squeezes his eyes shut. “Jaskier, I can’t find Dudu.”

Jaskier’s feels his mouth go slack. “I thought you said he left town.”

“No, I said he was _going_ to leave town. But he didn’t, and now he’s missing!”

“Are you sure he isn’t just being someone else?”

“I’m positive! Or anyway, if he is, it wasn’t voluntary. He’s either hiding, he’s been taken, _or he’s been killed_!”

“It wasn’t Geralt.”

“You don’t know that!”

“I know him, Dainty. And if you met him, you’d know it’s true.”

“I don’t believe this,” Dainty seethes. “I didn’t believe it was true, anyway, when I heard the rumor, but _sure enough_ , here you are, under some sort of spell.”

“I’m not under a spell—he isn’t a sorcerer.”

“You aren’t? Okay, then _do something_.”

“To find him?”

“Yes, to find him.”

“Have you…”

“Have I _what_? Called the guards? You know what good that would do. _Oh please Mr. Witch Hunter Sir, Lord Torturer_ , _would you please help me find my doppler friend_?” he hisses. “No, Jaskier, I haven’t. But _you_ are a person I trust. And _you_ are—despite your apparent ignorance of witchers—the cleverest person I know.” He heaves out a great sigh. “And if anyone is charming enough to charm a bloody witcher, well, I reckon that person is you.”

Jaskier purses his lips. “I’ll ask around. I’m sure someone has heard something. And Priscilla and I were planning something that might bring in a lot of people. We could ask around then, too.”

“Just be careful, Jaskier. And give me one with cream and sugar. Not too hot.”

~ ~ ~

A day passes. Jaskier asks everyone who visits and knows Dudu. By the following afternoon, he still hasn’t heard anything promising. He sinks down onto a stool at the bar. He lets his chin drop onto his wrist.

“We’ll do it in three days,” Priscilla says, appearing beside him.

“Hmm?”

“The recital.”

“Mmm. ‘kay.”

She brushes his hair back from his forehead. “Dandelion.”

“Hmm?”

“You don’t think it was him, right?”

“Mmm. Right.”

Her fingers feel good. He lets himself be soothed. “Why?”

“’Cause he’s good,” he murmurs. “Fixed chair.”

“And you think you can judge his character?”

“Mmm hmm.”

“You’re so cute when you pout.”

Jaskier sticks his lip out further.

“I think you’re a good judge of character, too. And I’m going to make you a cup of tea.” She kisses him on the top of the head. “Look who’s here,” she whispers.

Geralt blocks the sun in the doorway, and dust motes float in the rays of light that shine around him. The light seems to linger on him, even after the door closes, and Jaskier realizes it’s because he’s dressed… differently.

Geralt watches him, like a wolf, as he stalks across the café. He’s wearing simple brown trousers and a rough shirt, that may have been bright white a lifetime ago. It looks worn, like it’s been on his body many times. The sleeves are rolled to the elbow. Jaskier licks his lips.

“Hmm,” Priscilla murmurs. She strokes his hair again, straightens, and starts to prepare two mugs.

Jaskier sits up as Geralt nears. “Hello Geralt,” he says.

~ ~ ~

It’s a black tea, prepared simple with a taste of sugar and a splash of milk. “I don’t like this as much,” Geralt complains.

Jaskier smiles.

Geralt frowns.

“What?”

“That’s not your—what’s wrong?”

“You keep asking me that.”

“Today you’re… different. You aren’t agitated like before. Your…” he leans forward. “Your breath is slower. Your pulse, too.”

“You can hear my pulse?”

“Mm. Sometimes.”

“My friend is missing.”

Geralt sits up straighter. He has a pack on one of his sword belts, and he slides it open and removes a couple of books. “What happened?”

“Is that a new journal?”

“Mm.” He opens it to a fresh page. He has an artist’s pencil, which he sharpens with a small blade before he starts to write. “What happened?”

“I’m not…” he sighs. “Dudu… isn’t actually Dainty’s cousin.”

“ _You don’t say_.”

“You knew?”

“You’re a terrible liar, Jaskier.”

“I am not!”

Geralt just lifts his eyebrows and gives him a _look_.

“Okay I am. And Dudu…” Jaskier whispers, “He’s a doppler. Who everyone knows as a halfling, as Dainty’s cousin.”

“How long has he been missing?”

“Five days.”

“Hmm.” Geralt writes. “I’m going to need to know where he lives, where he was last seen, and if there’s any place he might go.”

“You’re… you’re going to…”

“What?”

“You’re going to help.”

Geralt’s eyes track over Jaskier’s face, to his shirt, and back to his eyes. “Yes. I’m going to help.”

Jaskier sinks back into his chair. He feels his muscles give out. “Thank you,” he says. “Thank you, Geralt.”

Geralt sketches out a rudimentary map of the city, and Jaskier watches, awestruck. “I need you to point out where Dudu lives and where he goes—any information will help.”

Jaskier takes the pencil. It’s warm from Geralt’s hand, and he feels his cheeks heat. He tries to pay attention to the work and not watch Geralt’s fingers trace over the cover of the other book he brought. “Done,” he says finally, pushing it back to him.

“Good.” Geralt stands and drops a few coins on the table.

“This is less than usual,” Jaskier teases. He lifts his eyebrows and blinks a few times.

“It isn’t as good.”

“It’s very good, it just isn’t what you like.”

“And how would you know what I like?”

Jaskier knows his heart is racing, now, and he wonders if Geralt hears it. He turns, opening his posture. Geralt’s nostrils flare, but his face doesn’t change. “Call it a gift.”

“Sounds like you have quite a few of those.”

“I do. You should come to our music night in a few days. Priscilla will sing.”

“Is that what she was doing when I came in?”

Jaskier thinks, and then remembers what Geralt would have seen. “Ah. She mothers me. Or sisters me, I suppose. She’s much more romantic when she sings.”

“Are you?”

“Romantic? Of course.”

“I meant, are you singing?”

“I’m thinking about it.”

Geralt gives a quick, tight nod. He picks up his journal. “I… Hm. I bought that.” He stares at the book on the table. It’s bound in an exquisite indigo leather, with gold foil lettering on the spine.

“Ballads?”

“Mm.”

“Are you getting into poetry, Geralt?”

Geralt’s jaw flexes a few times before he opens his mouth. “It’s for you,” he says. He looks away, peeks back, and then looks away again. “I’ll let you know what I find out about your friend.”

He’s gone before Jaskier realizes he needs to breathe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay I told you guys there wouldn't be much plot, but I had to plan for how Dandelion's friends would react to his new friendship, so this was added to the outline. I promise it will pay off in warm, fuzzy ways. Fuzzy, of course, referring to chest hair. Hnngh. (ftr, I appreciate both, but you know how it is) This is not an angsty action story, so don't fret.
> 
> I ADORE reading your feedback, and especially the ideas/predictions for where this is going.  
> A couple of you had comments that were almost exactly what I have in the outline, and I love it when that happens!!   
> After this is finished I should screenshot my ridiculous outline (this chapter included items like, Dandelion feels things and BOOK GIFT all caps).
> 
> As you know by now, I absolutely would love any comments/kudos/bookmarks.
> 
> I'm Zooming with my dissertation committee chair tomorrow about revisions, and then I have a committee meeting on Wednesday, but I'm hoping to have you chapter four that day. I'll either be crying from despair or crying from joy. We'll find out.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt searches for Dudu.  
> Jaskier is grateful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geralt POV

He doesn’t get involved. He doesn’t pick sides. He doesn’t get attached. Usually, it isn’t a problem. People are afraid of him. Not just afraid. Terrified. He accepts contracts, he fulfills them, and he gets paid. They stay terrified.

He tightens his vambraces. _He isn’t afraid of me at all_ , he thinks. He straps on his swords and cinches the belt around his waist. His armor is newly repaired, and it’s a little stiff, but looks formidable. With any luck, he’ll be able to easily coerce information out of anyone he comes across. He slams the lid on the trunk in his room and locks everything.

He starts in the street outside the building Jaskier marked as Dudu’s residence. It’s not the most prosperous part of town, but neither is it the poorest. The building is tall, and Jaskier has written “third floor” by the circle. Geralt doesn’t see anything suspicious, but he notes a few features. Dudu lives on the third floor, which is the top of the building. An alley runs beside the building. A rickety staircase leads to exterior doors on the second and third floors. Clotheslines stretch across the alley to the windows opposite. Nothing hangs on Dudu’s, of course—dopplers make their own. Geralt’s medallion is still, which means, if nothing else, that Dudu isn’t in his natural form. However, he could be anyone. _He could be Jaskier_ , Geralt thinks. He remembers the way his eyes looked when he realized Geralt was giving him the book of ballads. _He couldn’t be Jaskier. Not even a doppler could fake that. It was all Jaskier_.

He realizes he hasn’t even known him that long.

Regardless, no one watches him from shadows. No one here seem out of place. He takes the stairs. He knocks, and no one answers, so he listens. There’s no one inside. The door is locked, so Geralt uses Aard to force it open.

It’s nice. The furnishings are sturdy and dressed with luxurious textiles. The near-opulence makes sense, now that Geralt knows Dudu is a doppler. _Everything_ makes more sense now. Dudu would be able to cross borders, sneak anywhere, and take nearly anything. It’s theft, of course, but with the way dopplers are treated, Geralt isn’t surprised. It’s even more incredible that Dudu has friends like Jaskier and Dainty. _How long has he been living as a halfling?_ Geralt wonders.

The dining table is empty. One chair is toppled over. Geralt looks closely. Beneath the table, he finds a Gwent card.

~ ~ ~

Geralt stops at The Chameleon the next day. He waits until he knows the morning crowd will be diminished. He walks in slowly. Priscilla is behind the bar, dressed in scarlet.

“Well hello there,” she greets him. She leans forward over the bar, curling a finger in her long blonde hair. “What can I get you?”

Geralt remembers her fingers tracing through Jaskier’s hair the day before. She kissed him on the top of his head. “Hmm. Where’s Jaskier?”

She smiles broadly. “He’s upstairs.”

Jaskier had said she _mothers_ or _sisters_ him. It hadn’t looked like that. Surely they have something. _Something very… cozy_ , Geralt thinks. _With warm drinks in bright shops and lots of music_. Something in his stomach clenches. She looks concerned, and he realizes he’s scowling. He clears his throat. “What’s upstairs?”

“Dandelion’s rooms, of course.” She takes a step back and turns to pick up a mug. Geralt realizes she’s wearing trousers. He manages to close his mouth before she turns back around. Dark trousers and a scarlet blouse with a daring décolletage. _Décolletage?_ he thinks. _Spending too much time here_. “Would you like to go say hello?”

“Hmm.” He looks around the café. It’s rather empty. An older woman sits at the front table, seemingly rapt in a heavy-looking book. Zoltan is at the grinder in the back corner, busy at work. He wonders how Jaskier’s hair felt against her fingertips. He knows it smells faintly of lavender. He knows his hands are warm, and his knuckles are dry. _Focus_. “You may be able to help, too.”

Her eyebrows life. “Oh?”

“You know I’m looking for your friend, right?”

“Yes.”

“I found this in his rooms.” He places the Gwent card on the bar.

“Okay.”

He turns it over for her. “Do you know what this symbol means?”

“No.”

“This card is from Cyprian Wiley’s casino.” He watches for a reaction. Her face remains neutral. “Why would Dudu have a Gwent card from Whoreson Junior’s casino?”

“I would think that there are probably Gwent cards across this city that have that symbol on them. If that’s a sign of some sort of connection to the Wiley family—doesn’t he own like, half the brothels in the city and a quarter of the taverns?”

Zoltan comes over as she finishes her answer. “Let me see that, lad.”

Geralt lifts an eyebrow. “Lad?”

“Give it here.” He takes the card. “Aye. This is a good one, too. Rare. That doesn’t bode well, does it?”

“Why?” asks Priscilla. “Did Dudu have something to do with the casino?”

“Not as a such,” says Zoltan. “But he likes a game from time to time like the best of us.”

“If he was at the casino and Wiley found out who he is…” Geralt frowns. “Hmm.” He clenches his fist, then takes the card and returns it to his pocket.

“He’d be a useful tool for a miscreant like Junior, aye. Do ye want me to tag along, Geralt?”

Geralt shakes his head. “No. Stay here and keep them safe.”

Zoltan nods. “Aye.” His hand shifts to a dagger on his belt.

“You’re going now?” Priscilla asks. “Without coffee or Jaskier?”

Geralt stares at her for a moment. She doesn’t shy away. _Why is no one here smart enough to be afraid of me?_ “I don’t need coffee or Jaskier to find your friend.”

“No, but it would _help_ ,” she points out. She doesn’t specify which.

“No.”

“He’s going to be disappointed.”

“He won’t be disappointed when I find his friend.”

~ ~ ~

He enters the casino as if he’s planning to spend his last coin. He heads upstairs and plays three games before he starts. _A doppler stole my money_. Uses their prejudice. _A filthy creature_. Uses their prejudice against him. _I know how to make a monster like that talk_.

An hour later, he leaves with his information. He waits until night.

The warehouse looks abandoned, but Geralt can hear the guards. He keeps to the shadows.

They’re keeping Dudu in silver chains, and he’s in his natural state. _Not he_ , he thinks. The doppler has been living as Dainty’s cousin, presenting masculine. Its natural state doesn’t correspond to human gender the same way. Geralt observes the situation, waits until the right moment, and strikes.

The guards are skilled. It takes awhile. Geralt narrowly misses being split in two. One of them manages to get a knife behind his breastplate, and Geralt feels his skin burn, as if there’s some sort of poison. He realizes that with Wiley’s connections, these guards may have poison or any other tool at their fingertips.

He prevails, regardless.

“Dudu?”

“I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure.”

“Geralt of Rivia.”

“I see. And you’re here to kill me?”

Geralt snaps the chain. “I’m here to save you.”

~ ~ ~

The Chameleon is closed when Geralt returns. The storefront is dark and the door is locked. Geralt stands on the street and looks up. Upstairs, light shines through an open window onto the balcony. “Hmm.” He looks down at himself. He’s covered in blood. Jaskier would be horrified. This isn’t monster blood. _It can wait until tomorrow_ , he tells himself. He looks back at the darkened café, thinking how a coffee would be nice, but he really wants something stronger after the day he’s had. He turns around walks away. He’ll find a tavern.

“Geralt?”

He’s halfway across the square before he hears his name. If his hearing was less keen, he wouldn’t hear it at all. He turns.

Jaskier stands at the open window, watching him. Geralt can see, even from this distance, that he’s informally dressed and rumpled. Something flutters in Geralt’s chest. “Can you hear me?” Jaskier asks. His voice is low.

Geralt nods.

“I’ll be down in a minute.”

~ ~ ~

He lets him in without lighting the lamps. The café smells wonderful, and Geralt feels his shoulders release tension. Jaskier’s eyes reflect light from a nearby lantern. “Priscilla said you came today.”

“You were upstairs.”

“I can’t work all the time.” He grins. “I’ll make you something now, though, if you want.”

“Hmm. That isn’t why I’m here.”

Jaskier licks his lips. Then he squints. He looks Geralt up and down. His eyes widen. “Geralt, what happened?”

“I found Dudu.”

Jaskier is silent. His hand moves to his mouth in horror.

“No, this isn’t Dudu’s blood.”

Jaskier sighs in relief. “Good.” He locks up again. “Is it yours?”

“Some.”

Jaskier gulps. “You should come up. You can get cleaned up. In my rooms. Erm, my place. Home.”

Geralt can hear his pulse speed. “I didn’t want to… scare you. That’s why I was leaving.”

“Scare me?” Jaskier lets out a light laugh. “Follow me.”

The stairs in the back of the café are wide and welcoming, and Geralt is reminded of the building’s former life. He remembers being here a few decades ago. It was a different experience, but being led up the stairs still gives him an unfocused, edgy feeling. It’s something like arousal, but less specific.

Jaskier’s rooms are somehow even more inviting than the café. It smells vaguely of coffee, but also of different spices, vanilla, and that hint of lavender that clings to him. The rugs are blues and golds. He lights more lamps, and the main room fills with it. This isn’t where he stood at the window; that room is through a partially open doorway. In it, Geralt sees a bed.

He looks Jaskier over. He’s wearing pale blue trousers and a loose white shirt, open at the neck and wrists. His hair is a mess. “Were you sleeping?”

“Why would I have been looking out the window if I was sleeping?”

“Mm.”

Jaskier pours water from a pitcher into a basin. “Do you…” His eyes rake up and down Geralt again, and he winces. “Do you want to take your armor off?”

“Mm.” Geralt undoes his belts. He places his swords carefully beside a table. He unfastens the vambraces and rerebraces. When he goes to remove the gardbraces and pouldrons from his shoulders, he stops, gritting his teeth.

“Let me,” Jaskier murmurs. He steps near and undoes the buckles and fasteners. When he leans in, Geralt hears him suck in a breath. “You’re hurt.”

“It’s nothing.”

“That’s not nothing, Geralt.” His fingers deftly pluck off Geralt’s breastplate.

“You seem to know your way around armor.”

Jaskier’s smile _suggests_ things. “Taking it off, anyway.”

Geralt’s mouth opens, but he can’t think how to respond. Jaskier continues, stripping off his outer layers piece by piece. His fingers trail across Geralt’s medallion and his tongue flits out to that spot he’s always biting at on his lip. _I should get him a balm_ , he thinks.

“You can... I mean, I can, uh, I can clean that gash.” He pushes the pile of armor away and wets a cloth. “If you want.”

Geralt looks down. His shirt is soaked in blood. “Hm.”

“I see now why you wear so much black.” Jaskier’s hands are streaked in red now, too.

“You’re going to mess up your clothes.”

Jaskier shrugs. He sets the cloth down on the edge of the basin, rinses his hands, and rolls up his sleeves. Geralt stares at his forearms. “Take your shirt off,” Jaskier says. His voice is firm. He licks that spot again and he bites down.

Geralt feels a tightening below his stomach. It’s subtle, but present. He takes hold of his shirt, and starts to pull, but the cut in his pectoral limits his mobility. He tries to use the other hand. “I heal fast,” he explains. “I can wait. I just think they used something on the blade… It slows it.”

Jaskier doesn’t say anything. He reaches out and curls his fingers into the shirt. “Can you lift your arms?”

“This one.”

Jaskier pulls the shirt up and helps Geralt maneuver his mobile arm until it’s out. Then he slowly slides it down his other arm. He handles him like he’s something delicate, like he’s precious. Then he casts the shirt aside and stares.

Geralt is used to people staring at his body: it’s damaged and scarred. People have a morbid fascination with the backstories. Jaskier, though, doesn’t look at him like that. His eyes are dark tonight, and they seem to take in every bit of him, every freckle or hair. They don’t linger on scars, they linger on his navel. They linger on his collarbones and his chest.

His lips are parted. Geralt watches them move, and he can see the moisture that clings to them, the chapped skin, and the way the pink darkens where he’s bitten at it.

Finally, Jaskier picks up the cloth. He wets it, wrings it out, and dabs at Geralt’s wound. Geralt sucks in a breath. “Sorry,” Jaskier breathes. “Would this be easier with a drink?”

“Mm.”

Jaskier drops the cloth back in the basin and steps over to a sideboard. He pours them each a glass of amber liquid. “Not coffee?” Geralt asks.

“I want to be able to at least try to sleep later.”

“Big day tomorrow?”

“No. Big dreams planned.”

 _Big dreams planned?_ Geralt shakes his head, uncertain what he means. The liquor is smooth. Geralt sips it. He sinks into a chair.

Jaskier takes a sip, too, and sets his glass down. He takes up the cloth a third time. “Right. What happened?”

Geralt recounts how he tracked Dudu while Jaskier dabs at his wound. Gradually, the water turns red.

“So then what happened? Oh, just a second.” He opens the balcony door, carries the basin out, looks down, and dumps it. He refills it, wets a fresh cloth, and goes back to work.

“I told Dudu to not be Dainty’s cousin for a while.”

Jaskier continues to wipe gently around the wound. He sits in a chair facing him, leaning close. “Some of this is stuck,” he murmurs. He reaches out to hold Geralt’s skin still, and his fingers meet Geralt’s bare chest.

Geralt stops breathing. He looks up and sees Jaskier drawing in a long breath. “So now Dudu is a middle-aged dwarf woman. Still Dudu. Dudu Vansell, maybe, or Schwartz. She hadn’t decided yet. Short for Drusilla.”

Jaskier’s fingers are light and cool. They absently trail across Geralt’s skin. “She’ll have to find a new place to stay.”

Geralt nods. “She said she was going to stay with some of your mummer friends for now.”

“Did she say how it all happened?”

“She—he—did a little too well at the casino and they decided to look into Dudu Biberveldt.” Geralt looks down. The wound is clean. Jaskier’s middle finger reaches Geralt’s nipple, and the touch sends a shockwave through Geralt’s body. He forces himself to stay still, but he must tense because Jaskier freezes, realizing where his hand has moved. He looks at his fingers, and then they pull away.

Geralt would swear he feels them _more_ just before they are removed completely.

“I should… I should go,” Geralt says.

“I… Thank you.”

Geralt nods. He reaches for his shirt.

“Oh no, don’t wear that. No. Let me get you a clean one.”

“What?”

Jaskier vanishes into his bedroom, and Geralt can hear thumping and rummaging. “A shirt,” he calls.

“Jaskier, there is no way one of your shirts is going to fit me.”

“No, it’ll be fine,” Jaskier insists. He returns with a deep red tunic. “It’s swallows me.” He starts to pass it to Geralt, and then remembers about his mobility. He slips the sleeve onto his arm, pulls it down over his head, and helps him lift his other arm up. His touch is still so gentle, it’s almost more painful, but in a far different way. He steps behind him as he tucks it over his head. “Does it hurt?” he whispers.

“Not bad.”

“I just… want to be able to thank you.”

“Mm. Make me something good tomorrow.” Geralt looks down at the sleeves stretched over his biceps. “Hm.”

Jaskier lets out a low laugh, almost like a husky giggle, stepping back around him. “I suppose I have a somewhat inferior build.” He takes it as an invitation to look Jaskier over again. He’s smaller, yes, but he doesn’t look any less appealing for it. Geralt absently wonders what the rest of his chest looks like. He can see pale skin and dark hair in the deep neckline. He wonders if the pale blue veins he sees in his wrists are visible anywhere else. He wonders if the tan on his forearms fades gradually, of if there’s a line remaining from some day spent toiling outside.

“Not inferior,” Geralt says. “Different.”

Jaskier’s breath catches. “Okay,” he whispers.

Geralt stands. He straps on his swords and takes up his armor. “Thanks, Jaskier.” The cut already feels better.

Jaskier nods, biting his lip again. Geralt wants to reach out and stop him. He wants to press his thumb against the fullness. He wonders if Jaskier’s tongue would flit out and touch it. He wonders if he would suck it into his mouth.

~ ~ ~

Geralt kneels on his bed at the Kingfisher. He needs to meditate. His energy level is low. He needs to focus. He’ll go back tomorrow. He wonders if Jaskier will be happy to see him again, or if it will matter, now that Dudu is back. He hopes she’ll stay safe, and that Wiley’s men won’t come looking for her at Jaskier’s. He’ll need to make sure they’re prepared.

He wonders if they’ll tire of him soon. He knows he isn’t the best company; he’s oftentimes bloody and in a foul mood. Priscilla is probably much better company. So is Zoltan, for that matter.

He wonders what Jaskier will make him tomorrow. He wonders if he’ll want to sit at his table and drink with him, or if he’ll be busy with other things.

Geralt closes his eyes. He meditates. He wonders what’s happening in Jaskier’s dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You all are amazing! Thank you so much for all your kind words of support! I try to respond to every comment, but on busy days, it takes me awhile. My committee meeting went well! I still have a lot of work to do because this is just the proposal stage. I'll be presenting it, hopefully, at the first of May. That said, there's a LOT to be done between now and then, so I'll try to keep my updates on schedule, but there may be days like today where I'm several hours off.
> 
> That said, I'm still absolutely in love with this story. I hope you like it too!! The outline for this chapter began with "TENSION" all caps. Did that come across??? ^_^  
> Also, this is mostly book!Dudu, which is a bit different than the doppler shown so far in the show. 
> 
> Much love. Stay safe!!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lute music in this chapter is inspired by Naochika Sogabe, who you can find on YouTube.
> 
> Sorry about the delay.

“Maybe,” Priscilla suggests, “you should go easy on that.”

Jaskier downs the rest of his mug, forces himself to swallow the oversized gulp, and ignores the ache that makes its way down his throat. “Why?” He coughs. He pours himself another cup.

“I suppose you could be drinking liquor, so this isn’t bad.” She calmly takes a drink of water. “I do wonder, though, at your complete lack of self-control. How many cups is that, now?”

“I don’t know.” Jaskier paces back and forth behind the bar.

She steps out of his way and perches on a stool. “You know it isn’t yet noon.”

He nods. “I do know that, yes.”

“You know that if he comes today, you’re going to be too keyed up to enjoy it.”

“I do not know that.”

“Dandelion.”

He continues to pace.

“Jaskier!”

“Huh?”

“Are you even _thinking_ at this point? Or is it just a howling wind in there?”

“Howling wind. Crashing waterfall. Conflagration.” He gestures with his fingers.

She rolls her eyes. “Here.” She picks up and hands him his lute. “Rehearse.”

“What?”

“Take this. Go over there somewhere. Practice for tomorrow night.”

“Oh.”

“And give me that coffee.”

He takes another drink and passes it to her in exchange for the lute. She takes a sip.

When he slides the lute out of its case, he takes a deep breath. He plucks the strings to check the tune, and he makes a few adjustments. Then he starts to play.

His chest hurts. He feels like his whole body is humming, and he isn’t certain if it’s the innumerable cups of coffee or lingering effects from last night.

He lets his fingers find their own tune. There was a point at which he was convinced Geralt felt… something. Jaskier remembers the heat of his chest beneath his hands, how his body had twitched, almost imperceptibly, when Jaskier touched his nipple. He closes his eyes and lets his fingers dance along the frets. Jaskier knows witchers are usually paid for their services. He’s certainly received enough of Geralt’s coin that it would be remiss to not give something in return. The tune changes from sweet to soft, and then into something beyond that. He thinks of a few things he could do to repay Geralt for his services. Even with his eyes closed, he feels his face heat at the thought. The thoughts form into something more organized:

_Remember us tonight I ask_

_Tomorrow morn and far beyond_

_Remember me and think of us_

_And hold me in your arms ‘til dawn._

_So all the wild, accursed plans_

_Of man and monster at our heels_

_Will crumble into stone and sand_

_If you but will to keep me still_

_And I will tremble at each touch_

_Even at the world’s cold end_

_With bated breath and cheeks aflush_

_I’ll long for you again, again._

It isn't right, but it's coming along. He opens his eyes. Geralt is standing before him, watching. “Hi,” he says. His voice is quiet and small. Geralt carefully pulls out the chair opposite him and sits.

“Jaskier.”

“How’s your shoulder?”

“You really can play.”

“Of course, I really can play. Seriously?”

Geralt shrugs.

“I wouldn’t lie about something as important as _that_ , Geralt.”

“Is the lute that important?”

“Yes! It’s _music_ , Geralt. Music and poetry and song and… everything that is good in this world!”

“Where does coffee fit into that?”

“Well coffee is the other thing that is good in the world. Obviously.”

“Obviously.”

“Oh! I told you I’d make you something good.”

“Are you okay? You seem a little… on edge again. You’re sweating.”

“How do you know I’m sweating?”

“I can smell it.”

“Oh. Oh gods. Really?” Jaskier tries to sneak a sniff, but then remembers that Geralt can smell and see pretty much everything. “Is it bad?”

“No.”

Jaskier tries to not think about Geralt smelling his sweat and _liking_ it, but the more he tries _not_ to, the more he does. “Your shoulder,” he prompts.

“It’s… fine. Thank you. I don’t… mostly I just… you know.”

“Walk it off?”

“Mm.”

“You know, it wouldn’t hurt to let yourself be taken care of a little more often.” He sets his lute on the table and stands. “Like now. I’ll make you something.” He forces himself to walk to the bar without looking back to see if Geralt is watching him. He wonders if he has already recorded last night in his journal.

He’s been thinking about this since last night. He lied awake and planned, and then he dreamed about it. The dream was disappointing, really. He’d wanted to dream of _more_. He blinks. Every time he blinks, he sees Geralt’s chest, imprinted in his mind. He pours cream and thinks about Geralt finding Dudu because he asked him to. His heart races. He slides the special attachment onto the jar of cream and pumps it until it’s whipped thick. Then he pours the coffee. He sweetens it with sugar, and then adds a generous helping of liqueur. He takes the lid off the cream and delicately spoons it onto the coffee. Priscilla shakes her head as she watches, but he ignores her.

When he looks up, he sees that Geralt is watching him, too. His face is placid. Jaskier can see him take a deep breath. He looks calm. Peaceful. _He likes it here._ It sends a thrill through Jaskier.

“You aren’t having any?” Geralt asks when he hands him the mug.

“This is especially for you.” Jaskier’s hands shake. He grins. “A gift, of sorts.”

“Of sorts?”

“Call it a returned favor.”

“This is for finding your friend?”

“If you like.”

“A lot of work for one cup of coffee.”

Jaskier squints. He cocks his head to the side. “What else would you like, my dear witcher?”

“Hmm.”

“Name your price.”

Geralt’s eyes shift down and linger on Jaskier’s doublet. He’s in a dove grey today. He chose it because he knows it brings out his eyes. _Want me_ , he wishes. _Want me as much as I want you_. Their eyes meet. “I’ll think about it,” Geralt says.

Jaskier leans back in his seat. “Besides, you haven’t even tried it. Maybe you’ll discover you’ve never tasted anything so delicious and you can’t get enough of it.”

“Doubtful.”

“What?!”

“Nothing tastes _that_ good.”

“You just lack… taste,” Jaskier says lamely.

Geralt smirks. He lifts the mug and takes a sip. It leaves a bit of whipped cream on the corner of his lip, and Jaskier thinks he’s going to die as a result of the image. Geralt may forget the taste, but Jaskier will never forget Geralt, casually dressed, relaxed in his café, with whipped cream on his lip. He’s ranking it right next to the sound he made when he tasted the drink with the cacao.

“Well?” Jaskier asks.

“Well what?”

“Is it good?”

Geralt shrugs. “All of your drinks are good.”

Jaskier opens his mouth to protest, and then sighs. “Well, that… isn’t what you were supposed to say, but fine.”

“Was that the song you’re playing tomorrow night?”

“The one just now?”

“Mm.”

“No, that was just… playing around.”

“ _That_ was playing around?”

“Yeah.”

“Hmm.”

“And anyway, I’m singing tomorrow night, too. And it takes me longer than that to write the words.”

“Then what will you play?”

“Are you coming?”

“Mm. Maybe.”

“You’ll just have to wait and see.”

~ ~ ~

Priscilla is a genius. She puts a burlap bag, recently emptied of coffee beans, by the door. “We aren’t changing for admission,” she tells people as they enter. “But we’ll split what we gather between the players.”

Jaskier mingles. He nearly charms the pants quite literally off of one half of a couple, and that’s just the warm-up. The female partner leans forward, revealing an ample bosom. “If you’re free later,” they tell him.

He winks. “We’ll see, shall we? Who know—maybe you’ll hate my singing.”

Even Zoltan is roped into mixing drinks. They go through half their milk in the first hour, and Jaskier worries they’ll need to send for more.

A baker transplant from Toussaint has made tarte tatin, honey croissants, and Jaskier notes, chocolate souffle. The crowd is cheerful, and willing to pay extra because of the novelty. They can pay her well and still turn a profit.

He sets aside an entire souffle, and Priscilla cocks an eyebrow at him. “Shh.”

She shakes her head. “You’re paying for that.”

“It’s _my_ café!”

“You’re paying for that,” she repeats.

A group of Irina’s mummers are performing a dance when Geralt arrives. It’s something a little unusual and artistic, and Geralt watches, confusion written across his face. He migrates across the room, eyes on them. Jaskier meets him at his table. “What do you think?” he asks.

“Of what?”

“The mummer’s dance.”

“Mmm. Never did know why they cover their faces like that.”

“Traditionally? To make you guess their identity, as I recall. Now, though? To play pranks,” he winks, “with anonymity and impunity.”

Geralt crosses his arms over his chest and leans back against the wall. The back of his head is cushioned by the tapestry (it really is a nice tapestry), and Jaskier grins. “What are you grinning about? You aren’t anonymous.”

“Not now—but I could always put on a mask. Then I could get away with anything…” He scratches at his chin. “Hmm… What would I use it for?”

“Not even a mask would make you anonymous, Jaskier.”

“No? And why is that?”

Geralt looks him up and down and lifts an eyebrow. “Nice _doublet_. Haven’t seen many like it.”

Jaskier puts his elbow on the table and rests his chin on his fist. “Fair. _But_ …” he muses, “I _could…_ ” He reaches up and unfastens it. Geralt watches as his fingers move down, clasp by clasp. His eyes seem to narrow on the activity. Jaskier feels like the air is being siphoned from the room.

“Dandelion!” Zoltan calls from the bar. Jaskier startles. “Get your skinny arse over here and work, you lazy shite!”

“Oi! Am not,” Jaskier calls back. His cheeks burn. He thumps the table. “I’ll bring you something good, dear customer.”

The café erupts in applause at the end of the dance, and a spritely young woman begins a routine with a scarf and a tambourine. When Jaskier looks back to Geralt, he sees him shaking his head.

Jaskier is using the evening to introduce a new press he purchased from a Nilfgaardian tradeswoman. It’s like something from an alchemy lab. In fact, Jaskier thinks it may have originally been used for something much different than coffee. Regardless, he’s used it enough times here and there over the past several weeks that he no longer releases pressure too quickly and blows hot grounds across the bar or burns the hell out of his hands, which is a plus. He’s also fairly confident any residual potions—or poisons—have been cleared out. _If not... Hopefully it was used for love potions_.

He uses a very finely ground bean. It fits into a small basket, which slips under a lever-controlled basin. When he presses water through the grounds, it comes out with a special foamy top, and it’s _bold_. The flavor makes him think of Geralt, and he wants him to try it.

He thinks it will be especially good with the souffle.

He pulls two cups, and uses a tray to carry them to the table.

“I thought you had to prove you aren’t a lazy shite,” Geralt says, gesturing to the second cup.

“I’m just staking my claim to this seat.”

“Are you?”

“I’m not going to let you eat that entire souffle by yourself.”

“Entire… did you travel to Toussaint for—oh wait. Let me guess. One of Dudu’s friends.”

“ _Actually_ , this is one of _my_ friends. Her name is Jacqueline, Geralt, and her _sweet_ buns—”

“I don’t know that you should tell me anything about a lady’s sweet buns.” Jaskier watches him take a sip. Geralt hums, satisfied. “Not as elaborate as what you usually make, but it’s not a bad change.”

“No, the sweetness would be too much with this.” He serves him the souffle and sips his own drink as Geralt takes a bite. As he chews, his eyes meet Jaskier’s. “Well?” Jaskier asks.

Geralt shrugs. “It’s good.”

“That’s it?” He rolls his eyes. “He eats chocolate souffle and drinks an entirely new type of coffee, and he says _it’s good_.” He lowers his voice to imitate Geralt’s gruff rasp.

“Am I supposed to be surprised?”

“Well, _no_ , but a little appreciation—”

“You didn’t even make the souffle. Your Beauclairois _friend_ made it.”

Jaskier squints. “You can be very cranky sometimes, you know that?” He stands. “And anyway, she’s from Dun Tynne, not Beauclair.”

Geralt smirks. “Hm.”

The girl finishes her dance, and Priscilla takes her place on their improvised stage. Jaskier stays behind the bar. Every table is full, with their raggedy band of friends and regulars.

Priscilla’s song is mournful. She strums and sings about a love lost. Jaskier remembers when it happened, and he knows she’s better off without the bastard, but it still makes him angry to think of it. The crowd, though, is devastated. The only dry eyes present are his, Zoltan’s, and Geralt’s.

Geralt, Jaskier can’t help but notice, is _watching_ him. He feels his eyes on him every time he wipes a mug or plates a bun.

“ _The shadowed road will lead me on_ ,” Priscilla sings, “ _And weary, waiting, I will long / for you, my love, forevermore / ‘til you return, return, return to me…_ ”

As she finishes, a sigh passes through the room, and then enthusiastic applause. Jaskier claps along. He holds her mug up to toast her, and when she’s watching, he takes a sip from it. It’s spiked with something hard, and he sputters from the unexpected burn. “Wow.” She watches him and laughs.

“Next,” she tells the crowd, "I think it’s Jaskier’s turn.”

He can’t help but watch for Geralt’s reaction. It’s subtle, but Jaskier thinks he sits forward, just a bit.

“Well if you’re going to twist my arm,” Jaskier says. He wishes the bar was a little lower, because it would a perfect moment to vault over it like a true performer. Unfortunately, the one time he tried something similar, he smashed their entire supply of cinnamon, which was in a jar being refilled. He doesn’t fancy a repeat of that, especially with an audience, so he bows graciously, flicks open the rest of his jacket, and carries his lute to take Priscilla’s place.

He can feel their eyes on him, and it makes his blood run faster. He feels Geralt’s eyes, and it warms his body. He reaches up and unties the laces at the neck of his shirt, loosening it. He looks around the crowd. _Well I have the ladies’ attention_ , he thinks. _For whatever that's worth._ He starts to play.

He starts off with a playful tune. It’s fun, if a bit wistful. Beside him, one of the mummers taps out the rhythm on a table. A flute takes up the melody, along with them. Jaskier hums along with _heys_ and _hos_ , and when it reaches the climax, he even throws in a key change for good measure.

And then he slows it down. He takes that wistful quality and he intensifies it. He leans into each strum, and plucks the strings and adds a bit of tremolo. He lets his body sway with the melody. _Then_ , he starts to sing.

It’s a variation of what he had thought up the day before, and it still isn’t perfect, but it captures some of the right feelings. He sings of standing at the world’s edge and not looking back. “ _With you I would face / man or beast alike / never pause nor fall / taken by the wild / untamed force that stirs / chews along my bones / keeps me at your side / just keep me by your side / and stay with me tonight._ ”

When he looks up, he sees Geralt watching, as if every one of his powerful senses is attuned just to him. He almost misses a note because of the intensity, but he saves it. He feels, just like he sang, that he could conquer anything. He wants to bottle the feeling and keep it for bad days. He thinks if he could have _this_ , whenever he needs it, it would file down the edges of the days he has to drag himself from bed.

He thinks that if he knew he had _this_ , those days would be fewer (and there aren’t many because he loves his friends, and Nehaleni—if she exists—has been good to him. He has remarkably good fortune.). But _this_. This feeling of being so wonderfully _seen_ , intoxicates. He lets the music flow out of him and watches Geralt back. He doesn’t want to blink because he’s afraid the spell will break. When he sings again, he voice is raw with emotion. He takes it falsetto. “ _I am but a man / but death itself is / no power I fear / when we can have this / tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow / and no, I will fight / if I’m at your side_.” He takes it slower. “ _And split you in two / taste everything you / have deep in your bones / and make you my home._ ” He finishes, letting his voice break a little with the urgency of it. “ _So stay with me just / stay with me tonight_.”

The crowd is rapturous. He’s caught in a near mob of affection when he finishes. Coins are lobbed into the burlap bag. He back is slapped and his hair is ruffled. The couple from earlier hungrily eyes him, and he leans into their hugs, letting them get a taste, but focused elsewhere. They seem to understand, and reluctantly let him through.

When Jaskier reaches Geralt’s table, he finds Dudu in his seat. She’s tapping her feet like she misses being able to swing them, now that her legs are a little bit longer. Dainty sits at her side, pushing a bag of coin at Geralt. “I’m sorry. I judged you too harshly."

Geralt pushes it back. “Use it to find new rooms.” He frowns. “You really shouldn’t be here. Wiley’s men…”

“Yes, yes,” Dainty says. “We know the real danger, now. We’re lucky to have you.”

“Indeed,” Dudu agrees. She leans toward Geralt. “And you have such a pretty face. I wouldn’t mind being _you_ next time someone comes for me.”

“Uh, um…” Geralt doesn’t seem to know how to take the compliment. “Well. If that’s something you can do.”

“Dandelion, are you going to stand there gawking at us or are you going to sit?” Dudu asks.

Jaskier looks over the bar. The work seems to have settled. A young woman with heavily kohl-lined eyes is reading a sad poem. He looks back at the table. Geralt slides out the chair beside his.

“Oh,” he says. He sits.

They drink. He’s going to be buzzing all night from the coffee _and_ the company. Every time Geralt takes a bite of the chocolate souffle, he leans forward a little and his leg brushes against Jaskier’s. When it’s finished, Jaskier puts his hand on his leg, and he realizes Geralt’s is only the barest distance away.

He sees Geralt’s leg relax and open wider beside him. He takes a sip of coffee and decides to do the same.

When their knees touch, it’s through trousers. Geralt’s are some sort of heavy spun fiber with leather portions for extra strength. Jaskier’s are soft, but not soft enough to truly feel.

When their little fingers touch, it’s different. It creates the same shockwaves as the first time their fingers brushed, but now it sends Jaskier’s mind back two nights, to cleaning his wound. Geralt lets his hand linger, and Jaskier wonders if it’s doing the same thing to him.

He thinks about the way his eyes looked when he sang.

He realizes it’s a stupid question. The touch is _definitely_ doing the same thing to Geralt. So he turns himself toward Geralt even more. He leans in, pulse racing. He smells like leather, even without his armor. “Did you like my song?” he asks.

“Here goes the music talk,” Dainty complains. “Time for us to go.” He holds his hand out to shake Geralt’s. He looks at Jaskier, smiles, and nods.

Dudu stands, comes around the table, and kisses Geralt on the cheek. “Thank you,” she says. “I’ll see you later.”

“I don’t know much about music,” Geralt says. “But that sounded different than what I’m used to.”

“I felt like playing something very modern,” Jaskier explains. “A chance to try something new.”

“And the words. Were they from the book of ballads?”

“No. I wrote them.”

“Really? What about?”

“It wasn’t clear?” Jaskier bites at his chapped lip. “Longing for a lover.” He lowers his voice. “Basking in their strength.”

Geralt’s eyes are questioning, and Jaskier tries to answer them as clearly as possible. “I have a gift for you,” Geralt says.

“What? Another? You’re spoiling me.”

“What do you call this chocolate souffle and fancy coffee?”

“Just giving you what you deserve.”

Geralt sighs. _Sigh_ may be an incorrect word. He takes in and lets out a deep breath, but it’s relaxed. It’s calm. It’s easy. “If you say so.”

“What’s my present?”

“I’m not giving it to you here right now.”

“Why?”

“I… there are a lot of people here.”

“Do you want to come up?” Jaskier tries to keep his voice calm, but he knows it’s breathless as he asks.

“Not until you’re finished here.”

“Oh.”

Jaskier wonders how he can feasibly kick out a store full of paying customers. “Mm.”

“Maybe I should set something on fire. Or you could. What’s the fire thing you do?”

“You’re that eager to be alone with me?”

Jaskier takes a breath. _Now or never_ , he thinks. “Yes.”

Geralt’s mouth drops open, and Jaskier gets up, leaving him there.

He starts to gather cups.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The food in Beauclair is one of my favourite things about The Witcher III. Camembert. Chocolate souffle. All the different varieties of wine. It's absolutely delightful. Food, some of you will know, is an important thing to me. I blame Brian Jacques.
> 
> Outline for this chapter says, "Guitar bro moment, but not shitty." *hums Killing Me Softly*  
> I had rather planned to drag out that ending, but then it just seemed so out of character for Jaskier to not be like, "I'm so fucking cute, I'm going for it."  
> Additionally, my understanding of the hydraulic properties of manual espresso machines is limited, but my interwebs searches and Spouse have assured me that hydraulics overall has a long history; it seems reasonable that a world that has actual (motherfucking) sorcery could also have the mechanical know-how to create something similar. It would, however, probably be pretty dangerous in terms of pressure and spewing hot espresso grounds all over the place if not careful.
> 
> Next up: (looks at outline) "Geralt of Rivia feels things."  
> "Hmm." -Geralt


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's getting a little late, so I apologize if I've missed many typos here. I'll correct them as I see them tomorrow, but I wanted to go ahead and get this up for you all. <3 
> 
> Warning: NSFW (points to E rating)

The scent of bodies lingers after they leave. Geralt watches Jaskier bolt the door and takes in a long inhalation, full of it: sweat, loneliness, desire, drunkenness. The Chameleon holds all of it, and more. Beneath it—or over it, perhaps—is another layer, however. The coffee, yes, is prominent, but so is vanilla and cinnamon, cream and honey, that chocolate from the souffle and the powder Jaskier has. But there’s even more, if Geralt lets himself really focus: there’s chamomile, ginger, and something floral. _Hibiscus?_ Knowing Jaskier, it’s probably hibiscus because it’s absurd they’d have it here, in Novigrad. And then, beneath it all, there’s lavender and musk, and sandalwood. _That’s Jaskier_ , Geralt thinks. He’s imprinted on the place.

Geralt wonders if he spends enough time here, if _he’ll_ smell like him, too. He wonders how long it will linger. He wonders if, come dawn, it will have taken.

He wonders if he’ll still be here come dawn.

Jaskier stands at the door for a long moment, hands flat on it, as if he’s grounding himself.

Not for the first time, Geralt asks himself what he is doing here. He can still taste coffee and chocolate. He thinks this is the first night he’s been this thoroughly entertained without liquor or cards in… as long as he can remember. _Ever_ , a voice in his mind insists. He watches Jaskier turn and face him.

He’s staring at him, again, like he did while he was performing. It’s almost difficult to look at him like this. His doublet is carelessly unbuttoned (and _that’s_ an impression that _will_ linger), and the ties of his shirt are loosened, revealing that shadowed throat and a deep vee of dark chest hair. Once again, Geralt wants to seek out more. He wants to discover Jaskier’s skin like an unexplored territory. He has seen him dishabille before, but watching him flick open his jacket was different. Watching him loosen his collar, every eye in the room taking in the movement, was unlike anything Geralt has seen.

When Jaskier looked up, fingers deftly plucking the strings, his eyes landed directly on Geralt. Jaskier’s eyes can be blue or almost silver, and they were bright. Geralt felt it in his chest, and then his fingertips and the soles of his feet. It made him feel too big for his body.

Jaskier snuffs a candle on a table, and when he steps to the next one, Geralt snuffs it himself before he can. Jaskier laughs, a soft, throaty sound. It makes Geralt feel loose.

“I don’t… Hmm.” Geralt looks around the empty café. Everywhere he looks, he finds warm-hued colors, deep-stained woods, and bright tapestries. There’s no iron or steel; the only silver is on candlesticks. “This isn’t my life,” he says. It isn’t. Geralt’s life is a hastily packed bedroll and gruel and roadside meditations.

Jaskier approaches him slowly, as if he’s taking care. “But it is,” he disagrees. “You are here.” He narrows his eyes. “Unless… Dudu?”

Geralt chuckles, despite himself. He opens his hands. “No, I’m not Dudu.”

“Would you like to join me for a drink?” Jaskier asks.

“That depends.”

“On?”

“I don’t want any more coffee tonight.”

“I have just the thing.”

~ ~ ~

“Erveluce?”

Jaskier grins as the cork comes free. “Oh, you’ve heard of it?”

Geralt huffs out a little laugh. “Coffee must be lucrative.”

“Well every so often someone will drop forty or fifty crowns on a cup.”

“Who would be such a fool?”

“Not a fool. I’m just that good.”

“Are you?”

Jaskier licks his chapped lip again. He pours instead of answering. Their fingers brush when he hands off the glass, and this time Geralt is certain he does it on purpose. They each take a sip. “Mmm,” Jaskier hums. “Worth it.”

Geralt didn’t pay for it (directly), but he agrees nonetheless. He lets the taste roll around his tongue, and then he reaches into his pocket. “For you,” he says, placing the jar on the table.

Jaskier stills, then slowly puts his glass down. “What’s this?”

“It’s for your lips.”

The lips part. “My lips?”

“Mm.”

“What about them?”

Geralt sets down his glass, too, and picks up the jar. It’s small; it fits in his palm. “Your lips are chapped. You lick them all the time... That’s probably why,” he murmurs.

“I do?”

“Yes. And bite them.” He uncorks the jar. “This is made with beeswax.”

“Beeswax.”

“Stop repeating after me.” He dips his middle finger into it and steps closer to him. “If you put it on that spot—or everywhere—it will protect your skin.”

“What spot?” Jaskier asks.

“Your lip—”

“Show me.” His tongue flits out again. Geralt sets the jar down. “Show me, Geralt,” Jaskier demands.

Geralt looks at him. He lifts his hand and presses his finger against Jaskier’s bottom lip, smearing the balm against the dusty pink.

Jaskier’s tongue, this time, touches Geralt’s skin. His breath catches, but he leaves his hand. He feels Jaskier’s teeth gently bite on the tip of his finger. And then he feels Jaskier suck his fingertip into his mouth.

His mouth is a hot, wet thing that seems to run like a cord from the tip of Geralt’s finger to the depth of his stomach. It hooks into him there and tightens, like he would toss chains around a beast and pull them taut for capture. He feels like he is the beast being captured, and his first instinct is to run, but he swallows it down and stares, instead. His fingertip disappears between Jaskier’s lips, and he feels it being suckled. The feeling in his stomach grows stronger, and the tightening drifts lower as his muscles flex and respond. He feels his entire body respond, but the stiffening in his groin is unmistakable: his cock hardens; he steps even closer. He adds a finger to Jaskier’s mouth.

Jaskier’s eyes close as he sucks on the two fingers, like he can’t believe he’s here and can’t believe how good his skin tastes. His cheeks hollow out, and then he pulls off with a quiet pop that merges with the low growl Geralt can’t help but voice. His fingers are wet and slick, and he pulls them back and stares at the saliva, letting himself feel the tightening and the urgent quickening in his gut and his chest.

Geralt isn’t a stranger to desire. He’s familiarized himself with nearly every brothel north of the Yaruga. He’s known a few sorceresses who taught him something of pleasure, both giving and taking. He’s even known the desperation of the night before a battle with impossible odds, and the comfort found in the arms of a hastily-found companion who may be the last.

This is a different desire altogether.

It isn’t desperate, though it does not lack the intensity. Instead, it captures all of the warmth Geralt felt downstairs—all of the slow simmer of lazy, sun-filled afternoons—brought together at once to a single point of focus: Jaskier’s mouth. It is a desire built up, constructed from parts. _An open collar, a tune hummed between sips, the turn of a wrist while wiping a cup_. This is no after-dinner flirtation with a tavern maid, nor an after-contract release with exchange of coin or gratitude. This is a promise of being known—a recognition of spirit, a corresponding piece. It’s a different kind of companionship.

In Geralt’s experience, sex is a transaction. Sometimes it’s a shared opportunity to express all the rage of existing in a broken world. Sometimes it’s giving or receiving an escape from that brokenness. It’s never an expression, though, of anything more than fury, sorrow, or helplessness. But this, _this_ is something else. This is a warm spring that is open and flowing, more than a trickle but too steady to be churning. It gushes, and the feeling is so strange to Geralt, so unexpected, he feels breathless with it. Jaskier looks at him as if he’s the only thing that matters in the world, and as if they have all the time they’ll ever need to explore it. There’s nowhere else he’s needed. The only things that matter are here, right now, in this candlelit room.

He realizes that not being expected or asked to give anything makes him want to give and give and give. He lets his fingers trace along Jaskier’s cheek, and then pushes them into his hair. When his hand cups along the back of Jaskier’s neck, Jaskier moans, body swaying forward, breathless, and Geralt reaches out his other hand and pulls him against his body.

He feels that Jaskier is hard, realizing he’s now fully there, himself. Jaskier rocks into him once, eyes on his, until their faces are too close. Jaskier’s flutter closed, and Geralt lets his follow.

His lips are slick from the balm, and Geralt tastes it: honey and a touch of rosewater. His senses are overwhelmed. The balm coats his lips as well, and he lets his tongue chase the flavor. He licks at Jaskier’s bottom lip, exploring, until Jaskier’s sighs, parting his lips, and meeting him. He feels Jaskier’s heart race as he holds him close, and as their kisses grow deeper and more impassioned, he thinks that he has been holding himself still and balanced so long, he’s finally ready to give.

Even Jaskier’s breath is musical. He punctuates each movement of his lips with a gasp, as if he can barely keep up. Then it is as if he remembers he has hands. They start calm, resting on Geralt’s arms, and then they clutch and grasp. He takes fistfuls of Geralt’s shirt, tugging him even closer, pulling him in. His fingers find Geralt’s shoulders, and then his palms stroke downward until he’s clutching Geralt’s ass. Geralt pulls back from the kiss, groaning. Jaskier’s hand shifts to his front. He rubs him through his trousers. He feels his hardness, his size, and his eyes darken. His mouth is red. Geralt can see where his lips have smeared the balm on his skin. He realizes he hasn’t tasted Jaskier’s neck, so he lowers his head and lets his mouth mark its path along his skin.

“Geralt,” Jaskier breathes. “My… let’s—my bedroom…” His fingers tangle in Geralt’s hair. He pulls back, takes Geralt’s hand, and leads the way.

~ ~ ~

For all Jaskier’s careful dressing, he takes little care with the crumpled clothes he removes. He lets the doublet fall to the floor in a heap beside his and Geralt’s boots. Geralt presses his face to the low neck of his shirt, feeling his chest hair against his cheek before kissing him there. He bunches it up and shoves it over his head, and Jaskier tosses it across the room. Geralt pulls off his trousers, and soon he’s laid out for him like a feast. His skin is all shades of pink. His tan fades gradually, Geralt learns. The tops of his hands are sun-browned, but they fade into peach at his shoulders, dotted with freckles. Geralt decides he can’t see him well enough, so he uses Igni to light the fireplace and a candelabra beside the bed. The hair on his body is a soft, light brown, and it trails down to his cock, already throbbing before Geralt’s eyes as he lies back and lets himself be looked at. Geralt is still dressed, and having Jaskier’s before him, undone in the night, stirs and intoxicates. The flush in Jaskier’s chest shows that he, too, is affected by it. Geralt runs a hand down his side, watching and feeling his body respond, bit by bit, to the touch.

He twitches, and a bead of precum slicks the tip of his cock. Geralt reaches out, unable to stop himself, and pushes his finger against it. Jaskier moans, whispering his name. He stares as Geralt looks at it, and then lifts his finger to his mouth.

It is as if a dam has broken. Jaskier surges up and claims Geralt’s mouth. He pushes him down onto the bed. It’s overstuffed, another sign of the building’s former life, with a feather tick that’s soft and smells fresh. Geralt sinks in, and Jaskier writhes above him, rubbing against him, seeking friction. He clutches at Geralt’s cock through the trousers, lowering himself down, and sucking through the fabric. Geralt grunts. His body throbs, as everything in him _wants_. He wants everything Jaskier has. He wants to take him, be taken by him, claim him, be marked. It’s primal and he recalls Jaskier’s song: something about bones and marrow, and he thinks, _Yes, that—sucking out all the flavor_ , idiotically perhaps, _like bone broth or potion_. The thoughts aren’t coherent; it’s just urges and desires. He reaches up and grips the headboard while Jaskier pulls the laces back and releases his cock. His eyes are wide. “Geralt,” he whispers again. It’s spoken like a prayer, and Geralt finds he enjoys reducing Jaskier to so few words, and having them focused on him. He nods his head, and Jaskier nods, too. He scrambles up, sitting astride his lap, and reaches to his bedside table. He fumbles a bit as he unstoppers a small vial, and then slicks his hand with oil. Then he lines himself up with Geralt, and takes them both between his hands.

He strokes them in painfully slow, tight movements. He leans in and licks at Geralt’s mouth, then kisses him, deeply again, until Geralt lets go of the headboard and holds his face in his hands. He relishes it. When Jaskier pauses, it’s to shove up Geralt’s shirt, which is rapidly added to the pile on the floor. “Fuck, whatever gods, fucking Huldra or Melitele or whatever—Nehaleni’s blessings—remind me to make a fucking offering—”

“What?”

“You’re the most magnificent thing I’ve ever seen. I think I'm becoming devout. The Eternal Fire is here, in my bed.”

“Are you being poetic?”

“No. _This_ _is_ poetry.” He runs his hands up and down Geralt’s chest, caressing him like he’s a fragile, precious thing again. “I almost thought I’d dreamt it up, but you really are…” He sucks a wet kiss onto Geralt’s sternum, and then rubs his face there, groaning. “I want you, Geralt. I’ve wanted you since the first day you came here, brooding like some lone wolf on a hunt.”

Geralt tugs his face forward. “You talk too fucking much.”

Jaskier strokes them again. “You fucking love it.” He squeezes around them and lifts his brows as Geralt’s cock throbs. “You can’t hide this kind of evidence.”

Geralt groans. He reaches down and takes them in his own, larger hand. “Get on with it.”

“Why?” Jaskier teases, fighting him for a slower pace.

“ _Jaskier_ …”

Jaskier grins. “Maybe I don’t just want you like this,” he pulls himself back. “Maybe,” his voice lilts, “I want more.” He topples himself backwards, stroking himself with those slow, meditative pulls.

Geralt looks down and sees him from underneath. He licks his lips. He wonders, suddenly, what the rest of his skin tastes like. He raises himself forward and uses one arm to press Jaskier back. With the other, he holds his hip, and he takes his length into his mouth.

It isn’t something he’s done often, but Geralt isn’t a boy. He takes him deep, and Jaskier’s moans are melodious. “Ahh, _fuck_ Geralt,” he manages to utter before he’s reduced to just noises, as Geralt tongues lower, sucking and then letting his mouth explore.

When his tongue finds the spot, Jaskier’s moans grow in urgency. “Mmm,” Geralt murmurs against him, pulling at his body to grant better access. He tongues the opening, flitting at it, then hinting at entrance.

“ _Fuuuck_ , yes. _Please_ …” Jaskier husks.

“Tell me what you need.”

“I need you,” Jaskier says without hesitation. “In me.” He opens his eyes to stare at him. “I need to be yours. I need you to be mine.”

It twists something in Geralt’s chest again. _Witchers don’t have unneeded possessions_ , a voice whispers in his head. He ignores it. _Maybe…_ something inside him replies. _Maybe…_

He pushes a finger, still slicked with some oil, into Jaskier’s tight heat. He growls. It’s so fucking tight. There’s no way he’s going to fit.

Jaskier’s eyes roll back and he lets out a keening sound. “ _Geralt—nngh…”_

“Yes, tell me.” He pulls back and pushes in again, working his way deeper. He tries to gentle himself, to make it as good for Jaskier as he deserves. He strokes into him with precision, and when Jaskier relaxes around him, he crooks his finger and manages to find the spot that nearly makes his come undone beneath his hands.

“Not yet, not yet!” Jaskier pants. “More first.”

Geralt slips in a second finger, watching Jaskier’s cock leak. He laps at it again, and Jaskier looks like he’s about to lose control. “Tell me what you need,” Geralt murmurs again.

“Fuck me,” Jaskier demands. “ _Fuck me_.”

Geralt uses more oil. He lines himself up and pushes. He enters him in a steady thrust that provokes a low curse and another long moan. “Yeah,” Geralt whispers. Jaskier is white hot heat and slick velvet that squeezes him tight. When he bottoms out, he stares at him, and Jaskier, as if he knows, opens his eyes.

Jaskier nods. “Please,” he whispers, hands touching everywhere they can reach.

Geralt obliges. He moves. He maneuvers Jaskier’s legs so that they’re onto his shoulders, leveraging his body for the best access, and every stroke sends Jaskier’s voice more broken until he’s babbling in pleasure—incoherent with bliss. He’s a mess of noise and sweat, and when he comes, it’s with so much force his body convulses, clenching and pulsing around Geralt until he, too, goes over the edge, buried deep in him, riding it out in each other’s arms.

~ ~ ~

The next morning, Geralt is thoroughly marked. They sleep in and find Priscilla has let herself into the back door to set up shop.

“Coffee’s waiting,” she says, without even looking to see who’s coming down the stairs.

Two cups rest on Geralt’s table, with honey croissants beside them.

“Thank you, love,” Jaskier chirps.

“Mmm hmm,” she says. She looks at Geralt. “Welcome to the family.”

His eyes scan the café, just now filling with a sleepy morning crowd. “Hmm,” he says. He looks from her to Jaskier, whose hair is still messy from sleep and last night’s sweat. He looks back to Priscilla. “Thank you.”

Jaskier takes his hand. He kisses his knuckles. The sun breaks over the rooftops of buildings across the square. People pass, starting their days.

Geralt picks up his coffee. He covers his smile by taking a drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for coming on this ride with me! Your kind words have been so helpful during the past couple of very stressful weeks. Much, much love!!

**Author's Note:**

> Your comments (and/or kudos) are greatly appreciated!! Let's talk! Thanks for reading and I love and appreciate you!


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